Lockheart
by Aublanc
Summary: When the Chitauri invaded, mages created metal dragons. Ten years later, General Loki leads an attack against Thanatos, the Chitauri's capital, in hopes of ending the war. The mission ends in failure, but one good thing does come of it; Tony Stark, blacksmith extraordinaire, is hired to repair Loki's dragon. When the two meet, they are suitably intrigued. (Steampunk!AU)
1. Chapter 1

Map of cities and territories can be found through the link in chapter one of this story on Ao3 because FFnet fucking sucks.

* * *

Sweat dripped down Tony's brow, pooling around the rim of his goggles. He ignored it and slammed the hammer down again. Ringing metal echoed through the smithy, followed closely by the hiss of burning coals. Once the gold-titanium alloy shifted back to a searing yellow-white, Tony pulled it from the flames and beat it against the anvil.

He repeated the process a dozen times, hammering and pulling the metal into shape. Only when the flat sheet had been sculpted into a vambrace did he stop, allowing the glow to simmer down to a dull red. His tools were set aside, and he wiggled his goggles to the top of his head to get a closer look at his creation. Heat radiated against his face as he inspected the divots and latches, and then he pulled back with a grin.

"Ha! I told you I could do it, Bruce!" He spun around to face his friend, who was in the middle of greasing a golden gear. "And to think you doubted my abilities."

Bruce raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "If I remember right, the word I had used was 'shouldn't'. Just because you can do something doesn't mean it's a good idea."

"Bah, semantics," Tony said, whirling back towards his project. The metal had reverted to its natural silver, and he lifted it with thick gloves. "Besides, anything I do is a good idea."

He bounced across the smithy and shoved the gauntlet under Bruce's nose, blocking him from his work. The man sighed. "Tony, you are being ridiculous. Have you not slept in a while? Is that what this is?"

"You're as bad as Pepper," Tony grumbled. "I've slept within the past twenty-four hours. Now _look_."

When Bruce finally relented and observed the vambrace, Tony felt like a child showing off a hideous charcoal drawing. Except, of course, what he had made was spectacular.

A few seconds passed without Bruce praising his genius, so Tony nudged the man's shoulder. "What do you think? I mean, I know it isn't perfect, and I've yet to decorate it. It's also a bit heavy, but I don't think that'll be a problem. There's always spells to get around that, and I-"

"Tony," Bruce interrupted. "What did I say about rambling?"

"Not to," Tony dutifully answered, but a second later, he took a deep breath and gushed, "But come on, don't you know how cool this is? Imagine when it's finished!"

"That's if it works, which frankly..." Bruce switched his focus from the vambrace to the other armor pieces strewn across Tony's desk and floor space. "I don't think it will. At least, I hope it doesn't. You're reckless enough as it is."

"You're just saying that because you're jealous I'll get to fly without a dragon," Tony said, pulling his creation away. If Bruce didn't appreciate it, he didn't get to look at it.

As Tony hid the vambrace behind his half-eaten lunch, Bruce rolled his eyes. "If you're done, I'm letting some air in here. It's sweltering."

He unbarred the thick metal shutters behind his desk, startling a pigeon that had been resting on the other side. It squawked and flew off, and in its place swept in cold winter air. Tony copied Bruce and opened the other two windows before grabbing a bucket of water and splashing it on the coals. The furnace sputtered, gushing smoke through the hole in the ceiling.

The empty bucket was soon refilled with water from the pipes, and Tony soaked an old washcloth in it. Then he set to wiping the sweat and soot from his bare chest, relishing the sudden chill just as much as he did finally being free of grime.

He had just dunked his head in the bucket to rise his hair when there was a commotion outside. With a frown, he pressed the water from his hair and went to the window. People were rushing through the streets in a dither, and a strike of fear went through Tony as he thought that Midgard was under attack. But then he realized that they weren't fleeing; they were running towards the city gates, where a large enough congregation had gathered that Tony could see it from his workshop.

"What is it?" Bruce asked.

"I don't know." Tony leaned farther out the window, but he was upwind from the gathering and couldn't make out any words. Then a young man ran past the window and Tony shouted, "Hey, what's going on?"

The boy stumbled and skidded to a stop, turning to him in surprise. "Haven't you heard? The Dragon Corp has returned, and people are saying they lost!"

Down the road, the shouting had grown louder as glinting beasts swooped down from the sky, heralding a caravan of returning soldiers. Drawn by the spectacle, the young man continued running, leaving Tony to frown after him.

There was shuffling from behind him, and he turned to see Bruce shrugging on his coat. "You're going down there?" Tony asked, slipping down from the window.

"Yeah." The man tightened fabric straps and adjusted his glasses. "Something is wrong. There shouldn't be this much fanfare, even if they did lose." He stopped at the door. "Are you coming?"

After a moment's hesitation, Tony nodded and grabbed his coat. He followed Bruce out of the smithy as he buttoned it, and then they hurried towards the gates. It was as if everyone in the city was on the streets, and they were still blocks away from the action when the congregation became too thick to walk through. Tony scowled at the shoulders and heads blocking his view before deciding that he wasn't going to wait where the only news he had was the concerned nattering of the two old women who lived next door.

Squaring his shoulders, he shoved into the crowd, and angry shouting followed in his wake. Bruce rushed to follow him, though he was too polite to ram his way through.

"Sorry. I need to get through here. Excuse me, I need to catch up with my friend." He accidentally bumped into an crotchety old man.

"Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry, sir. I will." Bruce ducked his head, trying to be less obtrusive, but he still had to force his way to Tony's side. Thankfully for him, Tony had run out of room to maneuver and was anxiously waiting at the corner of the main street.

"This is crazy," Bruce said, huddling into his coat to avoid knocking elbows with the woman next to him. "What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. Maybe they-"

His words were drowned out by angry shouts from farther down the road. "Get out of the way! Hurry up! Get out of the way!"

Unable to see what was happening, Tony stepped onto a flowerpot, smothering a peony under his boots. A woman with fiery red hair, a scorched uniform, and a Corp insignia on her shoulder was marching up the street, and the gathered civilians struggled to clear the path. They backed into alleyways and against the walls, though the woman's ire did not keep them from straining their necks to see the caravan that followed her.

There were two other dragon riders on her heels, and nestled between them was a wooden cart. It clattered across the cobblestones as they raced through the city, and despite their efforts to hold it steady, it shook and jostled. Tony squinted his eyes against the evening sun, trying to discern what they were so frantic about.

Then the cart passed by him, and he stared in shock at the body laid out on the wood. Red-stained bandages obscured their figure, and the visible swathes of flesh were either charred brown or ghostly white. Matted black hair stood out starkly against a slack and empty face, and were it not for the blood that dribbled from the man's mouth with each gasping breath, Tony would have thought him dead.

Seconds later, the group had passed, continuing their mad rush to the apothecary. The onlooking crowd was stunned into silence, and once the first cart had vanished around the corner, they turned as one to the other soldiers that were coming into view. They also walked alongside carts that bore covered bodies, but they had no need to rush; the riders inside had long since died.

As the death march proceeded, worried whispers arose.

"What in the world happened to them? Have the Chitauri grown stronger?"

"Did you see? Those weren't just any dragon riders—that was the First Corp."

"How are we supposed to win the war now?"

Growing tired of listening to frightened speculations, Tony hopped down from the flowerpot and caught Bruce's eye. He jerked his chin in the direction of the fort, and the other nodded. They wound through the crowd, and eventually they were spat out on the other side of Midgard.

However, the fort was just as busy as the city proper; foot soldiers and dragon riders were bustling back and forth, carrying news and supplies throughout the grounds. But though they dutifully carried out their orders, they did so in a daze. Their expressions were shell-shocked and forlorn.

Gut twisting in apprehension, Tony scanned the mayhem for someone who would be willing to give him answers. It didn't take long for him to find who he needed, and he stalked across the brittle grass as he called, "Rhodey!"

Rhodey broke off his conversation with the man he was talking to, an angry fellow with an eye-patch, and turned to face Tony. When he saw who had called for him, his troubled expression was momentarily lightened by a smile. "Tony, you're just the man I need!"

When Tony reached him, Rhodey pulled him into a hug and patted his back. Then he breathed in, wrinkled his nose, and drew back. "Ugh, you _reek_. When was the last time you showered?"

"I've been in the smithy all day," Tony said. "You try doing that and coming out smelling like roses."

Rhodey grinned at him, but then the man he'd been talking to shifted impatiently. Schooling his expression, Rhodey turned away from Tony and said, "Send more troops along the border and request reinforcements from Vanaheim. If there's a counterattack, we need to be ready. We can't afford to lose more dragon riders."

"We can't afford to lose more soldiers, either," the man replied, his gaze moving to the weary ranks of soldiers. But then a large shadow fell across the fort, and they looked up to see a gleaming dragon pass overhead. Its metal and canvas wings beat hard against the air, buffeting the people below, and its rider leaned forwards in the saddle. Within the beast's chest, a purple light flared, and the next wing beat rocketed the dragon forwards.

Once the dragon had become nothing more than a dark speck in the sky, circling protectively over the city, they turned away and the man sighed. "I'll see what I can do," he conceded, and at Rhodey's nod, he spun on his heel and strolled towards the headquarters.

"That's Brigadier General Fury," Rhodey said when he noticed Tony's curious staring. "He's normally stationed at Albesaa, but in light of recent events, we're sending him to Stuttgart."

"Recent events?" Bruce asked. "Do you mean what happened with the First Corp?"

When Rhodey didn't answer immediately, Tony added to the pressure. "You said you need me for something. I'm going to guess it has something to do with why the entire military has gone to shit."

Realizing that he wasn't going to get away with being tight-lipped, Rhodey said, "We've been sustaining heavy losses for months now. This last one with the First Corp... It's going to crush morale. We need something to bolster their spirits and prove that the war isn't lost."

"And I'm somehow involved in that?" Tony asked. "Because I'm not really the bolstering type."

"No, but you're good at fixing things." When neither Tony nor Bruce showed comprehension at his words, Rhodey stepped back and gestured for them to follow. "I'll show you what I'm talking about."

Intrigued, Tony let him lead them through the compound. They stopped at the hangar, which was designed to accommodate over a dozen dragons. However, only four were inside, and the others were lying in wagons. Though perhaps 'lying' was the wrong word; the dragons before him were nothing more than twisted mounds of metal, their usual gleam blackened and splattered with crimson.

A group of trainees were in the middle of tugging a tarp off of one of the machines, and one of them slipped, accidentally falling into the dragon. With a groan, metal broke away, and a golden head rolled from the wagon into the dirt. The half of it that was visible was crushed inwards, and eyes that had once glowed with magic were now empty.

"Watch what you're doing, cadet!" a woman ordered, and when the boy began apologizing profusely, nearly stepping on a wing that trailed across the ground, she groaned. "This is the cream of the crop? They're nothing more than children."

"If I remember correctly, you weren't much better when you first joined the Corp," Rhodey said, and the woman turned to them in surprise.

"Lieutenant General Rhodes. I didn't see you standing there." She peered at Bruce and Tony. "Who are they?"

"Tony Stark, genius extraordinaire," Tony answered before Rhodey could. "And this shy fellow here is my assistant, Bruce Banner."

"I'm not your assistant," Bruce muttered, but he reached out to shake the woman's hand.

"Second Lieutenant Hill," she introduced, and then she offered Tony her hand. "Mr. Stark. I've heard a lot about you. We could use your expertise."

"Everyone could use my expertise." Tony said with a cocky grin. However, that grin became forced when he looked over her shoulder at the three slayed dragons. "I'm not really in the scrap business, though. I prefer more of a challenge."

"Then it's a good thing we don't need you for those. You're here for that." She pointed at a wagon that had been separated from the rest, though the dragon inside was no less mangled. Its left wing had been blasted off, its front legs were mutilated, and its chest had been gouged to the point that the rigging was sliding out.

And yet, despite how severely it was damaged, the dragon was still functional. It twitched as the maintenance crew poked at it, and when it turned its head—causing the gears in its neck to screech and grind—its eyes glowed faint green.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You want me to fix _that_?"

Hill matched his expression. "Are you saying you can't? From what I've heard, you were the best in the business until you stopped taking contracts."

"Oh, I can do it alright, but I don't think it'd do anyone any good."

As he spoke, the magic in the dragon's eyes abruptly dimmed until he could barely see wisps of green inside the bristling skull. Those who noticed froze and stared and the dying light in dread. They didn't dare breathe, as if doing so would extinguish it once and for all.

But then the magic rekindled, though it lacked the vibrancy it once had. It made Tony think back to the half-dead man he had seen, hanging onto his life by a thread, and he knew then what body had once sat upon the ruined beast before him. After all, a dragon didn't die until its rider did.

Once a minute had passed and the light remained, Rhodey found his voice. "They'll pull through. They have every time before."

"Whose dragon is it?" Bruce asked, his eyes darting to the dragon and away again.

Hill answered with her fists clenched. "General Loki's."

Though Tony hadn't had a face to attach to the name until today, Hill's words made his blood run cold. He would've had to live under a rock to not know who Loki was. And yet he hoped to whatever deity might be out there—_not_ the self-proclaimed gods of Asgard—that he had the name wrong. "Loki? As in the best dragon rider we've ever seen Loki? The Hero of Galisteo? That one?"

Hill's defeated expression was answer enough.

"I thought we were winning," Tony said. "Winning doesn't end with the general and half of the First Corp dead."

"Loki's not dead yet," Rhodey said forcefully. "It takes more than that to kill an Aesir."

Given the way the dragon's magic kept fading, Tony thought that 'yet' was an apt way to put it. He had seen the general; wounds like that had killed would-be gods before. What the Corp needed to focus on was promoting a new leader, not fixing a dragon that was doomed to be scrapped.

Tony opened his mouth to say as much, but Bruce spoke before he did. "The First Corp were sent to handle a skirmish near Odessa, weren't they? I thought the Chitauri didn't have weapons there that could destroy a dragon."

Hill looked towards Rhodey, and Rhodey looked to make sure no one was listening. Then he quietly admitted, "We leaked information that they were going to Odessa because we suspect that there's a spy reporting our plans to the Chitauri. Their actual mission was to assault the portal in Thanatos."

"_Thanatos_?" Tony echoed in disbelief. "That's not a mission. That's a suicide run!"

His shout had attracted attention, and Hill glared at him. "Are you trying to compromise military secrets?"

"It's not much of a secret now that the Chitauri nearly killed them, now is it?" Tony asked, but he obligingly lowered his voice. "The enemy already knows your plans. The only ones left to lie to are us civilians."

Hill, who had yet to master a blank mask, darted her eyes away, and Tony realized that he had hit the nail on the head.

"Huh, you _are_ trying to lie to us. Why? You don't want anyone to know how much Loki screwed up?"

"I'm telling you this because I know you won't cooperate otherwise," Rhodey said. "But if the news gets out that we not only attacked Thanatos but lost three dragon riders in the process, people are going to panic. They'll lose faith that we can actually win this war. That's why we need you to fix the general's dragon. It'll give them something to rally around."

"You mean it'll distract them from the fact that you're lying to them," Tony said, but then he shrugged. "Fine. If that's what you want, I'll fix the damn dragon. But I'm charging a fortune for it, and I expect to be paid even when Loki dies and it becomes nothing more than a scrapheap."


	2. Chapter 2

On the second day after the First Corp returned from Thanatos in ruin, the light in the dragon's eyes went out. Or at least, Tony thought it had.

"No, no, no," he whispered, lurching out of his chair towards the motionless machine. He grabbed its head in his hands, peered into its empty eye sockets, and desperately searched for a hint of light. There was nothing.

"Is he-" Bruce started, but Tony interrupted him.

"Close the windows," he ordered as he released the dragon's head and stalked towards the forge. There was the start of a chest plate sitting in the flames, nearly hot enough to work, but Tony threw water into the fire without a second thought. It sputtered down to dim coals, and with the windows closed, dusk fell inside the smithy.

Tony hurried back to the dragon's side and leaned down, but he still couldn't find a hint of magic within it. Refusing to accept what was before him, he filled another bucket and ignored Bruce's confusion as he drowned the furnace again. Then he pulled the shutter closed, causing smoke to lazily drift around the ceiling.

Using the scant light that leaked past the windows, Tony moved towards the dragon. Normally the constructs were beacons in the night, but the one lying on his floor was glinting gold encasing an empty void.

"Damnit," Tony muttered. "We can't afford to lose him now."

He could hear the anxious tittering of the city beyond his walls, and he knew the announcement of General Loki's death would be met with panic. The military had tried to assuage fears by saying that Loki's injuries weren't as severe as they seemed, but given the state of the general's dragon, those words were nothing more than lies. The Chitauri had taken their general just like they took everything else.

But then, as Tony turned to reopen the windows, he noticed a glimmer out of the corner of his eyes. He stopped and stared at the dragon, and a second later, it happened again; a faint wisp of magic drifted through the metal frame before dispersing back into darkness.

"He's alive," Bruce said in disbelief.

"Yeah..." Another wisp appeared only to vanish faster than the first. "But for how long?"

Tony ended up watching the dragon throughout the night. When Bruce commented on his vigil, he waved it away, saying he had an ingenious idea he had to sketch out. However, each time the magic disappeared, he'd put out the candle and wait for green light to break the emptiness.

Then, sometime between midnight and dawn, he fell asleep with his chair facing the construct. When he awoke, it was to Bruce shaking his shoulder.

"Tony, look."

He groaned, blinking against the sunlight flooding the smithy, and pulled himself upright. "That's the last time I'm sleeping in a chair," he muttered as he turned to Bruce. "What is it?"

The man's response was to point at the dragon, and Tony felt his stomach drop. That was it- the general had died while he was sleeping. They were going to march his coffin through the streets and-

His eyes fell on the dragon, and his fear was replaced with shock. Then, as he continued staring at the bright, steady light coursing through the machine, he grinned.

"That son of a bitch made it."

-o-o-o-

"No, stop! What are you doing? You can't put that gear there!"

"Tony, I think I know what I'm doing. I have more experience with dragons than you do."

"Riding one doesn't count. There's plenty of dragon riders who don't know a spur gear from a hypoid gear. Besides, that was nine years ago. The original design is outdated."

"You're getting paid to fix the dragon, Tony. Not experiment with it."

"I am fixing it—fixing the inefficient design. Now put that gear down and leave the engineering to the master."

Rolling his eyes, Bruce dropped the gear onto the desk. "You're lucky I still put up with you."

"You know you love me," Tony said with a smirk, and then he returned his attention to the half-rigged wing before him. The limb was held aloft by ropes that were hooked to the ceiling, though the smithy was too small for it to be extended fully; the tip of the wing scraped against the wall.

Even though he was standing on a desk, Tony had to stretch himself to reach the higher clamps, and he fumbled with the wing in one hand while the other held a thick sheet of canvas. Not for the first time, he regretted attaching the limb before it was finished, especially when his patient was a pain in the ass.

Just as Tony was closing the last latch, the wing jerked and yanked the fabric from his hands. He stumbled after it, nearly falling off the table, and once he righted himself, he glared at the dragon. "Hey, what did I say about moving?"

Lifting its head from the the ground, the construct regard Tony with glowing eyes. Though the man knew that the dragons were not sentient, not the way humans or animals were, he could have sworn that it was amused by his frustration. With a groan, he looked away and tugged pointedly on the wing. "Hold still. I'm trying to fix you, metal for brains."

This time, the dragon obeyed, and Tony finished snapping in the artificial membrane. But then when he unhooked the ropes to check that the wing folded properly, the tip fell to the ground with a thud. Hopping off the table, Tony nudged it with his foot.

"Fold your wing."

The dragon didn't move.

"I know you can hear me. Hurry up. I'm on a deadline."

When the dragon continued to ignore him, Tony psyched himself up to lug the wing across the room, but just as he lifted the end of it, the wing retracted. It nestled against the dragon's side with a loud groan, and Tony frowned.

"I could have sworn I fixed that jamb," he muttered, stepping over the machine and peering into its shoulder to find that one of the gears had fallen out of alignment. He cursed, glanced at the clock, and cursed again. "I'm not going to finish on time. Bruce, come handle this while I finish its arm."

His friend didn't look up from the inventory sheets he had busied himself with. "You told me to stop messing with it."

"Ugh, fine, I take back what I said. Now go fix its shoulder."

"It wouldn't kill you to be polite, you know," Bruce said, but he stood and fetched a screwdriver, tub of grease, and sanding rod.

Tony claimed the vacated chair and shoved aside the paperwork in order to spread out the unused gears. Then he dragged the half-finished arm forwards, inspecting it for damage. When he was satisfied that Bruce hadn't messed with it again, he started attaching the remaining pieces. The gears fell into place with ease, and he was pleased to note that when he flexed the limb, it had a greater range of motion than the original design.

"Alright, let's finish this up," he said, hefting the arm from the table and lugging it over to the dragon. Bruce finished greasing the machine's shoulder and stepped back, allowing Tony to reach the connection port. He made quick work of welding the pieces together, and once he was sure it was stable, he motioned for the dragon to stand.

For the first time in a month, the machine was able to rise to its feet, and it flexed each limb as Tony instructed. The man walked around the dragon, searching for any flaws or anomalies, but he found none.

"You know, I think I might actually miss this ornery pile of rust," he said as he came to a stop in front of the construct. Then he checked his pocket watch and groaned. "I'm half an hour late. Help me get it onto the cart, will you?"

Bruce was already a step ahead of him, shoving open the swinging doors that attached the smithy to a wide alleyway. Outside, four draft horses snorted and shuffled their feet, pulling on the harnesses that attached them to a wagon. They quieted as Bruce approached with his hands raised disarmingly. He ran his hand along the back of the closest horse, soothing it, and once the animals' protests faded into silence, he nodded to Tony.

"Show time," Tony muttered, guiding the dragon forwards. It lumbered towards the door, and as it moved, Tony kept a close eye on the leg he'd just replaced. However, the limb held, and the only thing slowing the dragon was the narrow exit they were attempting to force it through. He had thought hauling the machine inside was a struggle, but now that it had all of its limbs, the reverse was even harder.

Metal screeched against stone as the dragon ducked through the doorway, and one of the construct's wings caught on the door hinges. With an annoyed grunt, the dragon yanked its wing forwards, tearing the wood from the wall. Then it shoved the rest of its body through, leaving Tony to stare is dismay at the damage.

"I take it back—I'm not going to miss it," the man said as he followed the wake of destruction to where the dragon was clambering into the wagon. The wood creaked beneath its weight, and the horses glanced nervously at it. Once again Bruce calmed then, and as Tony stepped up to take the man's place, he asked, "You coming with?"

Bruce shook his head. "I've got to get back to work. With the dragon taking up the smithy, I've fallen behind on my orders."

"Suit yourself," Tony said with a shrug. He untethered the lead horses' reigns from a wooden post and lightly tugged the animals forwards. "Come on. I want to get this over with."

The horses shared his desire, and they lurched into motion, causing the wagon's wheels to clatter against the cobblestones. They emerged from the alleyway and turned west, heading down the busy street. Curious cityfolk paused in their errands to watch as Tony led the dragon passed, and once they guessed who the construct belonged to, their relief was palpable.

Though Tony was no stranger to stares—was, in fact, quite fond of attracting them—he had no patience for the people obstructing his path, especially when the fort grew closer and the dragon grew more lively. It strained its neck to peer over the fort's high walls and flared its wings, nearly knocking over the wagon.

"If you don't stop that, I'm going to put a tarp over you," Tony warned, but though he would have been glad to carry the threat out, they had already reached the gates.

The guards stationed under the arch took one look at his cargo and unbarred his way, shepherding him into the grounds. Unlike last month, when the fort was in complete disarray and people were everywhere, the compound was calm and almost empty. Tony didn't let that fool him, however, into thinking that the war was going well; no one was there because they were dead or on the front lines.

Unable to locate a familiar face to dump the dragon on, Tony groaned and made his way farther into the fort. Rhodes had warned him before that he wasn't allowed to wander around military zones without an escort, but if they didn't have someone waiting for him, that was their problem.

When he found his way back to the hangar, there was still no sign of Hill, but there was a man in the middle of greasing a dragon's gears. As Tony brought the horses to a stop, the rider glanced over, but once he saw who it was, he lost interest and returned to maintaining the dragon.

Bristling at the dismissal, Tony asked, "Hey, do you know where Hill is? I've got a delivery for her."

He received no reply, and so he raised his voice and continued, "If you guys don't want your dragon back, fine. But if I'm taking it back, I hope you know that I'm going take it apart piece by piece."

That got him a reaction; the rider gritted his jaw and moved his oiling rag with jerky swipes. But he still didn't speak, so Tony kept going, pushing buttons until one of them gave.

"Even though I've repaired dozens of dragons, I've never completely understood how they ticked, and the Corp isn't too keen on sharing their secrets. But I bet if I dismantled it, I could figure it out even without magic. Then I could rebuild it and use it for myself. Maybe even make a doz-"

The rider, who's muscles had been getting more tense as Tony spoke, abruptly flung himself to his feet and took an angry step towards Tony. Sunlight glinted off of the man's left arm as metal plates whirred and shifted.

Startled, Tony stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. "Woah, man. Chill, okay? I was just joking."

"Then perhaps you should consider making better jokes," a voice said from behind Tony, and he turned to see a woman behind him, her arms crossed as she leaned against the wagon. The general's dragon shifted in the cart to rest its muzzle against her face, covering a deep pink scar that stretched across the left side.

"And you are?" Tony asked, but it seemed like no one wanted to listen to him today, because instead of answering, the woman turned her attention to the furious dragon rider.

"Are you alright?" she asked, and after a moment, the man's stance relaxed and he nodded. It seemed the woman didn't believe him though, because she continued to scrutinize him.

"I'm fine," the man rasped, surprising Tony; he was starting to think the man couldn't speak. "It's not a big deal."

Though not content with the response, the woman shifted her focus back to Tony, and her expression became icy again. "You're late."

Realizing that he had somehow made a mistake and offended both riders, Tony bit down his sarcastic retort and said, "I got held up. Now I'm looking for Hill; she said she would meet with me."

"She left when you didn't show up," the woman replied. "She has better things to do than wait around all day."

Then the dragon, looking more animated now than it had all month, shoved its snout against the woman again. She turned to it, and the green magic dancing in its eyes reflected in hers. The woman's glare partially thawed, and she asked, "Is Lockheart fit to fly?"

"Yeah, he's ready. But umm... Who are you? I was supposed to talk to Hill, or if she was unavailable, Loki."

There was a chuckle from behind Tony, sounding both parts amused and vindictive. He glanced back at the metal-armed rider, but the man had gone back to acting like Tony didn't exist. The woman, on the other hand, was staring at Tony with a frightening expression, but before he could backtrack, her scowl was replaced with a grin that was, admittedly, just as disturbing.

"Who, me?" the woman asked, drawing away from the dragon and stepping towards Tony "I'm nobody important. In fact..."

She continued to approach him until they were mere inches apart. Then, when tony didn't back down, she leaned forwards so her mouth was near his ear. "I'd much rather talk about you. You're reputation proceeds you, you know. Best blacksmith of the decade—a true heir to your father's legacy."

Tony bristled at her words, and when he reared his head back, he could see her smirk stretch wider. That's when he decided fuck it; he wasn't about to let a stranger intimidate him.

He matched her grin, flashing his teeth, and reached up to grab the hand that had been ghosting across his arm. Pulling on the limb, he drew the woman closer until they were flushed up against each other. The top of Tony's head barely passed the woman's chin, and he had to look up to meet her wicked green eyes, but that didn't stop him from saying, "Then I guess you haven't heard of my other reputations. The more... _exciting_ ones."

His actions took the woman by surprise, and she glanced down at where their bodies were touching. But then she slipped back into a mask, grabbing his free arm so it looked almost like they were about to start dancing. "Are you implying that you'll show me?"

"Perhaps."

She laughed, and if he didn't think she might slit his throat and leave his body in a ditch, Tony would have thought it sounded nice. "I don't think you understand the depth of your daring," she purred, tightening her grip on his hand.

"Oh really? Then enlighten me."

She tilted her head down until their noses were practically touching. Green eyes glittered with mischief, and she opened her mouth to reply. A shout interrupted her.

"Bucky, I told you to wait for me!"

Tony and the woman's heads snapped towards the corner of the hangar to see a gangly young man running around the corner. His eyes widened when he saw them, and he had to dig his heels in to keep from barreling into them. Once he skidded to a stop, he leaned against the hangar wall to catch his breath.

"Sorry," he gasped. "Didn't see you... there..." His voice trailed off as he took in their compromising positions.

The woman sighed and pulled away. "It's not what it looks like," she said. "I was merely... testing the waters."

The newcomer raised his eyebrow, pulling himself up to his full height, though considering the man was even shorter than Tony, it wasn't much. "By hitting on him?"

"It is not the worst I have done," she said with a shrug.

Though Shorty was unimpressed by her answer, he accepted it and turned towards Sir Grouchy. "What about you, Buck? What's your excuse for letting her terrorize a civilian?"

"It was amusing to watch," the other man said unrepentantly. When his skinny friend continued to frown at him, Bucky groaned. "Aww, come off it, Steve. Loki didn't hurt him."

Tony's brain stuttered. 'Loki?' He glanced around them, half expecting the general to spontaneously appear, but there was no one else. Which meant...

"That doesn't mean-"

"Woah, hold up," Tony blurted, drawing their attention back to him. He stared at the woman with wide eyes, and she smirked back at him, knowing exactly what he had realized. "_You're_ General Loki?"

"The one and only," she said, and as she spoke, Tony's attention was drawn back to the burn scars along her side. Then his eyes went to her black hair, the invigorated dragon, and back to the familiar burns on sallow skin.

"I..." Tony started, about to say, 'I should have guessed that,' but then he remembered why the thought had never crossed his mind. "I thought Loki was a man?"

"I am whatever I choose to be," Loki said, and her eyes challenged him to contradict her.

Not one to back down from a fight, Tony was about to do just that, but then he caught sight of Steve frantically shaking his head. After a second's hesitation, common sense won out, and Tony replaced his retort with the first thing that came to mind. "I fixed your dragon."

Loki laughed again, and while it was mocking, Tony thought she also sounded pleased. "I've noticed."

Her gaze turned to the dragon, and with a tilt of her head, it sprung from the wagon to land by her side. Tony yelped and stumbled back, nearly getting knocked over by its wings, and the horses snorted in alarm. Loki didn't notice or didn't care, too busy running her fingers across golden metal. The dragon leaned into her touch, and within its chest, the glow of magic grew brighter.

Then the machine lowered itself and Loki reached onto its back, grabbing one of its spikes and deftly pulling herself into the saddle. Her boots slid into chambers between the dragon's spine and wings, and once she was settled, the gears rotated to lock her in place.

"Let's see if your work is as good as they say," she said, looking down at them. "Sergeant, fetch my helmet."

Steve looked towards Bucky, and Bucky raised his grease-stained hands. Rolling his eyes, Steve went to the storage shed next to the hangar and emerged with an ostentatious helmet. It had curved horns sprouting from a golden band, goggles, and the side-panels of an aviator cap. Loki took the helmet from Steve and put it on, and as she did so, her mischievous body language shifted into something more serious.

"You're dismissed," Loki told Tony. "Next time, I suggest that you arrive on time."

Then she gripped the reigns along the dragon's neck and pressed herself tightly to the metal. Gears clanked and whirred as wings flung outwards, shoving against the air and lifting the construct's feet from the ground. Tony covered his eyes as dust billowed, and when he lowered his arm, the dragon had risen above the hangar. Its body gleamed in the evening sun, and Tony could barely see Loki on its back as it banked towards the city walls.

The two flew farther and farther away, leaving Tony to stare after them. It wasn't until Steve started talking to Bucky that he moved, but he even then, he kept glancing at the dark speck on the horizon as he led the horses home.


	3. Chapter 3

Black ink scrawled across the page, the letters indistinct and bisected by the line upon which they were meant to sit. The second the dip pen lifted from the page, Loki shoved the signed document to the side and grabbed another. When she caught sight of how many papers still remained, her lip curled, and she nearly knocked over her inkwell as she slammed the pen back in.

Loki was saved from the mind-numbing tedium of paperwork by footsteps coming down the hall. Her eyes darted to the open pocket watch sitting at the corner of the desk; right on time, as usual. Setting the pen down, Loki turned towards the door and called, "Please tell me you have something more interesting than equipment requisitions."

The door opened, and Second Lieutenant Natasha Romanov stepped inside, bringing with her muddy footprints and puddles of water. Loose red strands were plastered to her face, and she pushed them towards the ponytail that dripped onto the floor along with the rest of her sodden uniform. As she closed the door firmly behind her, her fingers left streaks of black on the oak.

"General," Natasha said, standing at attention until Loki waved her forwards. She strode to his desk, and from the bag slung across her chest, she procured a clean oiling cloth with which she dried her hands. Then she grabbed a stack of papers and dropped them on the desk, nearly knocking over the pile of forms. "I think you'll find that we could use a little boring."

"What did you find?" Loki asked as she pulled the papers closer. She flicked through them, scanning the contents, and realized that they were field reports dating back as far as half a decade. There was one from four years ago that had her name written in the corner, detailing an expedition to Storhul that had ended in disaster.

Loki's brow furrowed. "You think that this mission was compromised by the spy?" She went to another report, this one from three years ago. It stated in impersonal ink that the Chitauri had taken another town and that the Dragon Corp had lost their general. That had been the one time that Loki hadn't been pleased about getting promoted. "That all of these went wrong because of a spy?"

"Not just one spy," Natasha said as she began to wring out her jacket. Outside, a crack of thunder shook the air and rattled the window pane. "The effects are too far blown to be just one."

"Then how many?"

Natasha shrugged. "It's hard to tell. At least one in every city. More in Midgard. They knew about Albatyn, which means they haven't just breached the army. They're in the Dragon Corp, too."

"Damn it." Loki dropped the papers and leaned back in the chair, her hand reaching up to massage the thick, unwieldy skin on her neck. "They knew we were going to Thanatos. We weren't being clever—they've always been a mile ahead of us." She clenched her fist. "How had we not noticed before? How had _I_ not noticed before?"

"Because they're good," Natasha said bluntly. When Loki glowered at her, she didn't back down. Rank had never been able to curb her sharp tongue; it was one of her most endearing and frustrating qualities. "Whoever they are, they've been playing us for years. They aren't amateurs, and now that they've made a mistake, they'll be even more cautious."

"Not cautious enough to keep them from killing my riders," Loki growled. "We need to put an end to this now. I'll contact Lieutenant General Rhodes, make him gather his officers, and we'll flush the spies out. Interrogate everyone who had a hand in Albatyn, and-"

"And what? Make people doubt the military even more?" Natasha interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest and smearing mud across the white V of her exposed undershirt. "You know as well as I do that shooting in the dark will accomplish nothing but chaos. If we start pointing fingers, it will do nothing but destabilize our control. I don't need to tell you that we need all of the control we can get."

Loki stared at the spy, gobsmacked, and when Natasha lifted an eyebrow to say, 'What? You know I'm right,' the general slumped back into her chair. Despite the gravity of the situation, a fond grin tugged at her lips. "It is a wonder no one has court-martialed you before, Second Lieutenant."

Natasha returned the expression and said, "They've tried, but they need me too much to lock me away." Then her smile flattened. "There's little public action we can take, but my colleagues in Knowhere are conducting investigations of their own. Until they've yielded results, I'd advise keeping quiet about how much we know. Let the enemy think we're still ignorant."

"For all that it matters, we _are_ ignorant. They've taken countless li-"

Another crack of thunder drowned out her words. It shook the stone, faded, and then redoubled in ferocity, bringing with it a fresh flood of rain. The window across the room creaked piteously, and water started to pool under the pane, dribbling down the eroded stone.

Loki pulled open her desk drawer and began to shove papers in, crumpling their edges. When she spoke, her voice was just loud enough to carry over the storm. "When Asgard was still considered a pantheon by mortals, I had been known as a master of deceit. The God of Lies." She laughed harshly. "My brethren must be mocking me right now for letting parasites grow in my own domain."

Natasha, for once, held her tongue, and Loki envied her sangfroid. She knew that Natasha had to be as outraged as her, had to feel as _guilty_, but none of that showed in her expression. The woman was like stone, and when Loki felt like she had regained a mere fraction of that control, she said, "Until your colleagues follow through, I will delay taking decisive action, and I will advise Lieutenant General Rhodes to do the same. You're dismissed."

Loki turned back to the desk, grabbed her pen, and was about to dip it into the inkwell when she noticed that Natasha hadn't moved. Loki groaned, setting the pen back down. Natasha had been right; she did prefer the simplicity of paperwork.

"What else do I need to worry about?"

"There's Chitauri mobilizing to the south of Albatyn. They're heading to Odessa."

Loki closed her eyes, breathed out slowly, and resisted the urge to bang her head against the desk. She had just sent the riders in Odessa to assist in Svartalheim. "How fast are the Chitauri moving?"

"At the pace they were going, they should reach the wall by nightfall."

A quick check of her pocket watch confirmed what Loki feared. Even if she could recall the riders in time to stop the assault, Malekith would not take kindly to her rescinding her offer to help. She sighed, set the pen down again, and rose to her feet. "We'll head to Odessa and cut them off."

Once again, Natasha remained rooted in place. "They haven't mobilized an entire legion," she said, her words oddly hesitant. "We could send a battalion of foot soldiers, perhaps request assistance from the Howling Commandos in Stuttgart."

It didn't take long for Loki to understand what Natasha was trying to do. She tried to stand straighter, pulling the weight off of her right leg, but she couldn't help the way her jaw clenched at the throbbing ache. "The Howling Commandos have their own province to protect. We'll take care of it. The team could use the practice."

Not giving Natasha time to come up with a counter-argument—because Loki had no doubt that, if given the opportunity, Natasha could convince her of anything—the general headed for the door. It took a few steps for her gait to even out, but once she got into the rhythm, it was impossible to tell that her hip had been brutally wrenched out of place.

After a moment, Natasha followed, and the two stalked through the compound. They passed by other offices, the training room in which Hill was drilling some new recruits, and a ritual room before stepping outside. The rain immediately pelted them, and the mud sucked in their feet as they crossed the short distance to the Corp barracks. Loki shoved the door open, and a gust of wind made the lanterns flicker, drawing the attention of the two riders inside. At the sight of the general, they both snapped to attention.

"We're moving out within the hour. Get your supplies ready," Loki announced, coming to a stop before the couches. She frowned at the empty space to Bucky's left. "Where's Sergeant Rogers?"

Without a word, Bucky slid from the room into the adjoining living quarters. He returned a moment later on the heels of a tired Steve Rogers. The scrawny man was rubbing at eyes, still in his nightclothes, and when he pulled his hand away, it revealed the red flush in his cheeks.

"Loki?" he asked, squinting at the general. "What are you doing here? I thought that we have the day off."

"We _do_ have the day off." Clint said, easing out of his salute. His eyes slid from Loki to Natasha, who was standing rigidly near the door. "At least, we did. What city is it this time?"

"Odessa. The Chitauri are advancing on the wall as we speak."

Annoyance morphed into apprehension. "And the squadron that is normally stationed there?"

"They're on another assignment." Loki met each of their gazes. "We're the only ones available to stop them, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," the team chorused, and the general waved them towards their rooms. They hurried away, and she could hear drawers open and slam closed as they gathered their uniforms.

Loki went in the other direction, to her private quarters. The door locked behind her, and as she walked to the closet, she loosened her corset. It fell to the floor, quickly accompanied by her skirt, and was kicked to the side. She slid her new armor from the hanger, fingers brushing against the protective mail and stiff fabric. Though it had been weeks since she had worn full gear, and the material still reeked with chemicals, the feel of it around her shoulders was a comfort that little else provided.

When Loki looked down to fasten the straps, she paused, her eyes lingering on the warped flesh that spanned across her entire left side. Along her ribs, where the burn was the worst, her skin had become mottled red, and tendrils of raised skin reached past her sternum. Her hand traced along the marks, going from patches where she couldn't feel her own touch to spots where the lightest sensation had, not even a week ago, incited sparks of pain. A month ago, the entire area had been burned open, the charred blackness interspersed with crimson and bone.

Loki pulled her hand away and continued to buckle her armor, hiding the worst of the damage from sight. There was little she could do about the marks around her face, however, and when she bound her hair, it only drew attention to waxy skin above her ear and around half of her eye. She scrutinized her reflection, and the more she looked, the less content she became. But it wasn't just the scar that bothered her. In fact, the more she looked, the less that mattered compared to her too thick lips and round face.

Magic washed through Loki's body, reshaping all that it came in contact with, and when Loki looked back into the mirror, a more angular face greeted him. Content, he placed on the last of his armor and left the barracks. The rain had not slowed while he was inside, and he was drenched by the time he made it to the hangar. Clint and Natasha were already there, leading their dragons out onto the sodden field. The beasts were undeterred by the rain, and their wings flexed eagerly as they cleared the awning.

Loki grabbed his helmet and a saddlebag from the storage shed before entering the hangar. Only one torch was still lit, its flickering light barely enough to offset the overcast sky, but even if the building were pitch black, Loki would have had no problem finding Lockheart's stall. Each step he took made the green light seeping through the gaps in the door grow brighter, and he could hear his construct rouse with a hiss of steam.

Protecting the stall was a massive steel gate, the two panels held in place by half a ton of weights and gears. When Loki reached it, he placed his hand on the rune etched across the seam, and the door glowed the same color as the light within. The machinery groaned as the gate slid open, and Loki stepped back just as Lockheart sprang free of his confinement, claws scrapping against stone.

The dragon filled almost the entire walkway, and Loki had to duck under its wings to attach the supplies to hooks lining its chest. After the equipment was secured, he pressed a hand to Lockheart's flank, urging the machine forwards. It obeyed with a lurch, and they walked from the hangar, crossing paths with Bucky and Steve at the exit.

Once they reached the courtyard, Loki walked around Lockheart, inspecting the machinery for any flaws. In the light, he could easily see where the dragon's original frame gave way to Stark's repair; the gleaming gold of the new pieces made the old ones, scoured by sand and tarnished by hot steam, look like dull bronze. But just as Loki had found when he flown the previous day, the blacksmith's work, unlike his demeanor, was flawless.

With the easy part over, Loki grit his jaw and grabbed the reign threaded through Lockheart's neck. He dragged himself onto the dragon's back and shifted in the saddle, but no matter what position he sat in, the throbbing in his hip remained. It had been fine yesterday, but he was quickly learning that pain was worse when the weather was foul. However, a crotchety hip was better than being dead, and Loki slid his legs into the stirrups, letting the metal lock him into place.

Loki guided Lockheart towards Natasha and Clint, who were attempting to shield each other from the rain with their dragons' wings. Strong gusts of wind undermined their efforts, and Clint has wiping the water from his goggles when the general reached them.

"Are you sure it's safe to ride like this?" Clint asked, putting his helmet back on. He fumbled with the buckle, but eventually, he secured the strap under his chin. "I can hardly see two feet in front of me. Not to mention it's freezing."

"The rain will stop long before we reach the desert," Loki said, but he too was scowling; the cotton lining the inside of his helmet itched his skin, and the horns caused water to drip down the back of his shirt. Not surprisingly, the dragon riders were the only ones outside. The rest of the fort was as still as a grave.

"Is Hill not joining us?" Steve asked as he Bucky approached with their dragon, a twin-headed monstrosity that was so large it made Lockheart look small.

Loki shook his head. "She has other duties to tend to. This mission, it's just the five of us."

Silence fell over the group, and Loki did not miss the way the others glanced towards the empty spaces like they expected them to be filled. A month ago, they had flown as a team of eight. A year before that, they had been a team of thirteen. But now the only things that remained of the others were neglected stalls and unused beds.

The sky gave a plaintive cry as rain streamed down their faces, and Loki looked away, clenching Lockheart's reigns in his fists. He took the guilt and buried in deep within his chest, where it would hopefully rot with the rest of his regrets. The he urged his dragon to spread it wings, drawing the other riders' attention.

"It's time to move out," Loki said and propelled Lockheart into the air. A moment later, the team followed, and they left the rain of Midgard behind for the arid steppes.


	4. Chapter 4

"On your left!"

Bullets scythed through the sky, and Lockheart lurched sideways. Most of the shots went wide, and the few that pinged off the dragon's side were easily ignored. Loki hunkered down against the dragon's back as it pulled out of a roll, and once they were level, Loki guided Lockheart down into a dive. They descended towards the blood-soaked earth, magic thrumming through metal and flesh alike.

Below them, Winter threw itself at the Chitauri without pause. Its twin heads snapped at raised cannons as its claws dug into the tank's vulnerable sides. There was a wide swathe of destruction left in the dragon's wake, and it showed no signs of stopping. Winter was as merciless as the season it was named after, and though the Chitauri ranks churned around it, no one could get in an attack. Any who tried to shoot the skinny blond leading the machine into battle was taken out by Winter's other pilot, who was watching the enemy with a sniper's eye.

To the north of Winter, the Chitauri were pulling back and regrouping, and it was there that Loki put his attention. Acid green filled Lockheart's chest, bubbled up through the tubes in his throat, and coalesced in his mouth. With a hiss, the dragon's jaw dropped open, and a beam of magic shot forth.

For a second, the magic made no sound, and then it hit the ground. A crack like thunder shook the air as fire exploded outwards, consuming a tank and all who surrounded it. Burnt corpses collapsed to the ground in a ring around the crumpled shell, leaving a blackened hole in the enemy's ranks.

However, the Chitauri's armies were vast, and within seconds, the area was swarming with insectoids. They climbed over their fallen kin without batting an eye, and Lockheart had to pull out of its dive to avoid cannon fire. The ranks closed over as if nothing had happened, hiding the blackened sand. Loki grit his teeth and prepared another blast, wishing not for the first time that the Chitauri did not possess such unfailing cohesion. If they functioned like the armies that Loki was raised to fight, he could destroy them as Asgard had destroyed the Jotuns, but the Chitauri were unlike anything he had ever seen. They were unlike anything _anyone_ had ever seen.

Natasha's report could not have accurately conveyed the enormity of the force that had come to topple Odessa. It was not even a full legion, and yet the Chitauri's slate grey bodies emerged from the dark horizon in an endless stream. Even with the vanguard reduced to nothing more than stains of tar-like blood, the army covered over half a mile. But it was not their numbers that made fighting the Chitauri so hard. It was the fact that even though it appeared that they were fighting an army of thousands, in reality, they were only fighting one.

A decade ago, Earth had lost Thanatos because they hadn't understood that it didn't matter how many drones they killed. They fought for months against the onslaught coming through the torn Bifrost, but the siege never ended. Loki often wondered how many lives could've been saved if he'd caught on sooner. If he'd stopped pitying himself long enough to _think_ instead of trying to fix his mistake with nothing more than his fists. But by the time a human scientist had thought to study the Chitauri's insect-like physiology, it had been too late. The city was overrun, and the first of many Queens had been brought through the portal to turn a once thriving trade city into nothing more than an alien beehive.

The passage of years had done nothing to alleviate Loki's guilt, and he ordered Lockheart to make the Chitauri burn beneath him. Anything that didn't gleam with magic was a viable target, and flames pushed back against the blackened sky. It didn't matter that the Chitauri were strong—Loki would be stronger.

As Loki fought, so too did the others. Winter continued to slaughter the Chitauri on the ground, and from high above, Clint's dragon fired at the tanks with devastating accuracy. The fourth member of their party was harder to keep track of, though not for a lack of results. Black Widow was the fastest of all dragons, and Natasha darted around the outskirts of the army, culling any squadrons that managed to get past the other riders.

Though the enemy's numbers were vast, it was clear that they had been expecting to take advantage of the lack of riders in Odessa. Their strength came in quantity, not quality, and while a normal tank could take out a dragon if lucky, it was the behemoths that the Chitauri had made specifically to fight dragons that the riders had to fear. Without them, the Chitauri had nothing that could effectively stop the First Corp from decimating their ranks, and they knew it.

The shift was instantaneous: one moment the Chitauri were crawling across crags and cracked earth, taking aim at the dragons, and the next they were retreating towards the horizon, tanks flattening sagebrush. The ground went dark, bereft of igniting gunpowder, and Loki cursed. He tugged on Lockheart's reigns, pulling the dragon out of a dive, and squinted into the darkness. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight, and when they did, his target was already in motion, fleeing back towards the ruins of Casavala.

Loki spurred Lockheart forwards, but the moment the dragon got into range, it was peppered with bullets coming from the opposite direction. One nearly hit Loki, and he twisted sideways, shielding himself with the dragon's bulk. When the attack eased, he tried to seek out the perpetrators, but many of them had already disappeared into tunnels beneath the sand. Those that remained took advantage of the glowing beacon within Lockheart's chest to pressure Loki back into the sky.

A red light circled around the Chitauri and shot towards Loki, slowing down only when it came within a hundred feet. As Black Widow passed overhead, close enough that Loki had to duck his head, Natasha shouted, "What's your call, General?"

Loki didn't answer immediately. He turned back to the Chitauri, but more than half of them had already vanished into holes hidden in the shadows.

Black Widow swooped back to Loki's side, and without looking at Natasha, Loki said, "They'll be back."

"They always are," Natasha answered, steadying her dragon.

"We could pursue them. Take out as many as we can before they regroup."

Loki's eyes were focused on Steve and Bucky, who continued their assault despite the Chitauri's retreat. Any finesse they had had at the beginning of the battle was now lost, and Winter made an easy target for the Chitauri hiding in the shadows, but that didn't stop them. Despite his small stature, Steve never learned how to back down from a fight, and the Chitauri had ensured that Bucky would never rest while a single one of them still lived.

But while Loki could not begrudge them their tenacity, he also knew that if they continued, it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Many dragon riders had died, and would continue to die, in battles against drones, and it never got them any closer to ending the invasion.

Knowing exactly what he was thinking, Natasha said, "But we won't."

Loki sighed, and the wind swept the sound away. "No, we won't."

Magic gathered in Lockheart's mouth, but instead of firing at the ground, the dragon lifted its head towards the sky. A pillar of green light cut through the night, and Loki held it until Winter disengaged and Hawkeye descended. Then he let the light die and the Chitauri escape.

"I must admit that I'm surprised, boss," Clint said, pulling Hawkeye into formation at Loki's left. "No one's dying and you're calling off the fight."

"If you want to be riddled with bullet holes, then by all means, keep attacking them."

Clint chuckled. "Fair enough." He shifted in his saddle, stretched his arms over his head, and leaned forwards to watch the emptying horizon. "So what do we do now?"

"We're returning to Midgard. Odessa can mobilize its own army." Loki turned to Natasha, an order on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated when he saw her slumped exhaustedly in her saddle. "Barton," he said instead. "Fly ahead to Odessa and tell them to search the area for tunnels in the morning. Regroup with us when you're finished."

With a nod, Clint broke away from the formation, and as Hawkeye lurched towards Odessa, Winter took its place. Both Steve and Bucky were easy to see in the vibrant glow of their dragon, and so were their scowls. However, fate must have been on Loki's side, because neither of them questioned his orders. Either that, or they were both as burnt out as he was.

"Let's head back home," Loki said and guided Lockheart east.

As they flew, the foilage grew less sparse, and the cracked ground became rocky spires. Odessa appeared as a speck to the north. Distance made the city small, but the miles could not completely eliminate the breadth of the citadel. Were they closer, they would have been able to see every brick that made up the twenty-foot wall encircling the city. That wall was the one thing preserving Odessa, keeping out both sandstorms and the Chitauri. However, it was not impervious, and there were places where the stone was different colors, revealing where the Chitauri had broken through. It was for that reason that the city, once a vibrant trade center at the end of the Ekkion River, was almost as lifeless as the desert it bordered. The only ones foolish enough to stay were the soldiers and the dispirited.

Odessa was falling back out of sight when Clint caught up with them. The others shifted out of the way so he could get close enough to report. "They're sending a battalion into the desert to chart and collapse the tunnels."

Loki nodded, and Hawkeye dropped back to take up the rear. The squadron continued flying in silence, for once not broken by Bucky and Steve's bickering. When Loki glanced over at them, he found that Steve had managed to fall asleep in the saddle, and while Bucky was awake, his mind seemed miles away. To his right, Natasha wasn't faring much better. Her cheek was smushed against a ridged neck-plate, and her goggles were askew on her face.

Loki pushed Lockheart to move faster, and the other dragons complied with or without their rider's input. Soon the desert's hold gave way to lush grasslands and when they crossed Lake Thylain, towering forests stretched for miles. Past the treetops, Midgard appeared before them. The sprawling city was no longer cloaked in rain, and the sun was creeping up over the placid ocean.

"Finally," Clint muttered, his tired voice nearly inaudible. "I'm gonna eat and then sleep for a year."

The dragons banked towards the fort, waking the other riders. They pried themselves upright, and once they saw Midgard, they sighed in relief. The city grew larger, spreading out across the coast, and the hangar became distinguishable inside the compound. Lockheart automatically headed towards it, but then Loki caught sight of a plume of smoke rising from the north end of the city.

Without thinking about it, Loki yanked Lockheart back, ending his descent. His actions caught the attention of the rest of the team, and they jerked to a stop, expressions startled. Clint and Bucky scanned the sky and ground, searching for a threat, and Natasha asked, "General?" with all traces of exhaustion gone from her voice. The Second Lieutenant started to pull her helmet back into place, but Loki waved her down.

"It's nothing," he said, eyes still fixed on the smithy. "Go to the hangar without me. I'll be back in half an hour."

His words did nothing to ease the others' confusion, but then Steve, glancing between Loki and the hilltop, caught on. "You're going to visit Stark?"

"I'll be back," Loki reiterated, angling Lockheart upwards. "Get the dragons stabled, and get some rest. Chances are we'll have to head out again this evening."

With a beat of its wings, Lockheart pulled out of the formation, and Clint asked confusedly, "Stark's that cocky blacksmith who fixed Lockheart, right? What's so special about him?"

Steve said, "When I figure it out, I'll tell you," before Lockheart flew out of earshot and over the compound wall.

The gilded tips of the dragon's wings nearly touched the rooftops as it passed over the city. People were already filling the streets, using the first stirrings of sunlight to go about their business, and they paused as Lockheart went by. Loki could see them point at him and talk amongst themselves, though the words were lost to him. He didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying, however. The last time the people of Midgard had gotten a good look at Loki was when he was half-dead on a wagon. Despite the military's assurances that he was fine, rumors had spread that he had died that day. After all, it was unheard of for an Aesir to take so long to recover. What they didn't know—couldn't know—was that Loki was the farthest thing from an Aesir.

Smoke blotted out Loki's vision, and Lockheart swooped into the road, landing as quietly as possible outside of the smithy. The precaution was unnecessary, however, as the sound of metal hitting metal was reverberating through the stone. As Loki approached the open window, he could hear frustrated muttering intermingled with the slam of a hammer.

To announce his presence, Lockheart stuck his head halfway through the open window. A second passed, and then a startled shriek pierced the morning air. Something clattered to the floor, followed by a loud thump, and Loki grinned. With a pat on Lockheart's neck, he urged the dragon away from the window, and from within the smithy, Stark incredulously exclaimed, "Did you _see_ that?"

Someone sighed and asked "What did you do this time?" as footsteps rapidly approached the door.

"I didn't _do_ anything," Stark retorted. The door rattled as it was shoved open, and the blacksmith stormed out. "Alright, why the-"

Stark cut himself off and came to an abrupt halt, his nose mere inches from Lockheart's. Every muscle on the man's bare chest went taut, and he reached for his hip as if there was a weapon there. His fingers closed on empty air. Then he saw Loki, smirking from atop the dragon, and his body relaxed even as his scowl deepened.

"What the hell, man?" There was a pause. "...It is 'man' this time, right?"

"Of course," Loki said, his smile growing harsher. "I could prove it to you, if you'd like."

"While that sounds fun, I think I'll have to pass you up on your offer," Stark replied, leaning against the door frame.

Metal peeled away from the Loki's legs, and he grabbed onto Lockheart's reigns as he slid from the saddle. Once he was stable, he let go of the dragon and sauntered towards Stark. The man crossed his arms across his chest, like he wasn't half a foot shorter than Loki, and blocked half the entrance. Loki darted around him to enter through the other half.

"Wha- You're not allowed in there!" Stark spun towards Loki, perhaps thinking that he could physically haul the general out, but he had to return to the door when Lockheart attempted to follow them in. "Hey, you overstayed your welcome last time, metal for brains," the blacksmith said, spreading his arms across the threshold and digging in his heels.

Lockheart pawed at the ground, and steam hissed from its pipes in a facsimile of an annoyed huff, but Stark refused to budge. Loki turned away just at the dragon switched tactics to headbutting, and his eyes fell on the other person in the smithy. There was something familiar about the man, and it took Loki a moment to realize why. He had a lot more gray hairs than he had when Loki last saw him, and his face was more wrinkled, but it was definitely the same person.

"Private Banner. I didn't know that you'd moved to Midgard."

The ex-rider blinked at Loki, and then a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. "It's been a long time since someone's called me that."

"Wait a second," Stark said, giving up on fending off Lockheart. "Bruce, you're friends with this jerk?"

"No need to feel jealous, Stark. Private Banner was one of the first members of the Dragon Corp. We inevitably met a few times."

Banner rubbed the back of his head. "I'm surprised that you still remember me."

"Yes, well," Loki grinned wryly, "you made yourself quite unforgettable."

The story of Bruce Banner was popular in the training barracks, and the recruits spoke of it half in awe and half in fear. 'Have you heard,' they would say, 'that one time a dragon got so out of control it destroyed a city?' Of course, many of the renditions were greatly exaggerated: Banner hadn't flattened Harlem, and only two people had been injured before the beserking dragon could be subdued. Still, the story left its mark, and it served as an important reminder as to why very few people were able to be dragon riders.

Banner ducked his head and chuckled softly. "I guess I did."

Growing tired of not being the center of attention, Stark crossed his arms and demanded, "Why are you here, Loki? Surely you didn't come at the crack of dawn just to share old war stories."

Smirking, Loki turned to the man. "I'm sorry. Is my presence bothering you?"

"Uhh, yeah. It is. I was in the middle of something important."

Loki followed the man's gaze to the cooling forge and half-hammered sheet of metal. It was the latter object that captured the general's attention, and he sidestepped Stark to reach it. Hot iron stung his fingertips as he lifted the plate from the floor, but no matter which way he turned it, he couldn't discern what it was meant to be.

No longer interested, Loki placed the metal on the anvil and went to the desk, where a mask sat on top of a pair of gauntlets. Loki picked it up, ignoring Stark's belligerent, "Hey!" and traced the eye holes with his fingers. He then flipped it over to inspect the latches on either side of the forehead.

The craftsmanship of the helmet confirmed what Loki had suspected, and he set it down as he announced, "Lockheart sustained minor damages during a battle and needs to be repaired."

"So? That's not my job."

"Nor was changing my dragon's designs, but that didn't seem to stop you." Stark went still, and Loki glanced over his shoulder at the man. "Did you honestly think that I wouldn't notice? One doesn't need to be a blacksmith to know a ball-joint from a gear."

Banner snickered, and Stark shot him an indignant look. Then he faced Loki and raised his chin. "Yeah, I changed it. The original design was trash." He stared Loki down, clearly asking, 'You gonna fight me about it?'

Loki had no interest in punishing the blacksmith, not when Lockheart currently maneuvered better than he had on the day he was created. "You're right," he said instead. "The dragon's are outdated compared to the Chitauri's technology. That's why I'm putting you in charge of Lockheart's maintenance."

Stark's jaw dropped, and when he realized Loki wasn't joking, he choked out, "_What_?"

"I'll pay you, of course. It'll be well worth your time."

Intending to turn back to Stark with a flourish, Loki pushed away from the table, but his hip had gotten stiff. He stumbled, and when he tried to steady himself, his hand smacked into the desk. The mask, placed near the edge, teetered and fell onto the floor. Loki silently cursed his newfound disability and stepped away from the desk, eyes darting to his audience in embarrassment.

Thankfully, it seemed that Stark was too riled to take note of Loki's blunder. The blacksmith stalked over to the mask, picked it up, and roughly scrubbed specks of dirt from the metal. When it once again met his satisfaction, he jabbed it at Loki and said, "I signed a one time deal, Goggles. I have more important things to do than fix your lump of bolts."

"Then clear your schedule. The Dragon Corp is second to no one." Deeming the argument over, Loki sauntered towards the exit, though he paused at the threshold. "I'm glad to see that you've been doing well, Private," he said, and only at Banner's nod did he squeeze past Lockheart and into the street.

Stark, however, had a stubborn streak that rivaled Steve's, and he followed on Loki's heels. "I told you, I'm not fixing your blasted dragon!"

"You will," Loki said confidently, motioning for Lockheart to unfurl his wings. The canvas snapped as the limbs stretched out to the sides and scrapped the edge of the smithy. Loki hauled himself into the saddle. "You have an hour to prepare your supplies. After that, I expect to see you at the hangar."

Lockheart bent his legs, the motion far smoother than it used to be, and leapt into the air. To avoid being pummeled by the dragon's wings, Stark retreated under the awning, but the second Lockheart passed the rooftop, he stepped out and shouted, "Damn it, Loki! I didn't agree to anything!"

The only response he got was a laugh that tugged on the scar around the general's mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

A bang reverberated down the street as the smithy door was flung open with enough force to hit the wall, and then it rebounded, setting of a litany of curses. Tony tried to nurse his throbbing nose while elbowing his way out of the building. "Infernal door," he muttered around the glove in his mouth and stumbled into the road.

Dusk had fallen on Midgard, and only a few people remained on the guild's street. Those who did paused their activities to watch as Tony hopped around, attempting to both get his arm into his jacket and close the door. When he succeeded in kicking the door shut, someone called, "Who are you trying to woo this time, Stark? The governor or that new rider of yours?"

Tony whipped around to face the speaker and scowled at the sight of their smirk. "Shut up, Hammer," he said, though the glove made his words intelligible. He spat it out and reiterated, "No one thinks you're amusing."

It was a rare day when Tony wasted time bickering with the lesser known blacksmith—who, quite frankly, did horrendous work—and today he was even less inclined. He parted from the man with an obscene gesture and sprinted down the road. For the first block, his speed was hindered by his efforts to put on the second glove without running into anyone, but when he at last got each finger in the right place, he ran as fast as his legs would take him.

As he neared the bar district, the amount of people increased and the gas lamps lining the roads were lit. His breath started coming out in harsh pants, but he didn't slow. He spun around the corner, nearly crashed into a laughing gaggle of women, and finally came into view of Da Vinci's.

The large restaurant dominated the end of the road. Its sculpted columns standing out from the wooden beams of the shops to either side, and coaches lined the street, depositing their passengers before pulling away towards a side road. The patrons entering it were considerably better dressed than those who frequented the bars a block south. Bustle skirts, top hats, and golden accents were ubiquitous among the civilians, and the few soldiers in the crowd wore decorated uniforms.

Eyes passing over the pomp that he himself was a part of, Tony sought out one figure in particular. A part of him dared to hope that his companion hadn't arrived yet, but then he caught sight of a familiar carriage parked across from Da Vinci's. He groaned as he slowed to a stop, ending up beneath a light post outside the restaurant's double doors.

Figuring that he was late either way, Tony leaned against the metal pole and took a moment to catch his breath. He was dismayed to find that he was almost as sweaty as he had been before he bathed, and his suit clung to his skin. Trying to hide the evidence of his cross town sprint, Tony slicked his hair back into place. The damp jacket was harder to fix, but he did what he could to air it out before turning to the crowded entrance. Then Tony put his most charming grin in place and sauntered towards the open doors.

It was lighter inside the restaurant, but just barely. Candles flickered on each of the many tables, and intricate chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Tony used the flickering light to navigate through the tables and up the winding stairwell in the back. The second floor was still crowded, but it was free of parties waiting to be seated, and he easily made his way back to the reserved tables.

His devil-may-care attitude lasted up until he caught sight of fiery red hair and disappointed green eyes. Pepper was sitting with her back to the wall, and her fingers tapped threateningly against her wine glass as Tony approached.

"Would you forgive me if I said that I was working for the military?" he asked, slowing to a stop a safe distance away.

Pepper's only response was a raised eyebrow, and Tony sighed. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't accept that excuse. Was worth a try though."

For a moment, the intensity of Pepper's gaze remained the same, but then she rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I can't say I'm surprised that you're late. At least this time you managed to show up."

"Hey now, give me more credit than that. I've only missed our meetings once, maybe twice." Tony pulled out the chair and sat across from her. He took in the sight of Pepper, her curled hair falling around a lace-lined neck and her arms clad in burgundy, like a drowning man. "How long has it been, Pep? Three months?"

"Nearly four," Pepper answered, studying him with the same intensity. When she seemed satisfied with what she saw, she leaned back in her chair and took a long sip of wine. "Honestly, I don't even have the time for this, but I had to see you again. I worry that if someone doesn't look after you, you'll let yourself waste away again."

When Pepper gave him a sad smile, her exhaustion showed through the layers of makeup, and Tony frowned. "I don't think I'm the one you should be worried about right now. Is the situation really that bad? You've always gotten us through rough spots in the past."

"And I'll get us through now," Pepper stated, determination overlaying the weariness. Not for the first time, Tony admired the fact that she could keep an entire city afloat while the world was going to pieces. "It's just going to take time. With so many refugees pouring into Midgard, our food supply is stretched to the limit. Not to mention the lack of space is inciting riots in the outer districts. An elf was nearly killed by an angry mob last week."

"Can you not send them to Avalon? Or Kvenland? Surely the Aesir have enough resources to share, and they at least don't discriminate with their hatred of us 'lesser' races."

An angry scowl split Pepper's face, its vehemence all the more apparent in its rarity. "That's exactly why I can't send to them for help. They call themselves gods, and yet they sit around in self-pity while we fight the war they started. If the Bifrost still worked, I'd tell their king exactly what I think of him."

Despite the direction the conversation had turned—or, perhaps, because of it—Tony chuckled. "Miss Potts lecturing the untouchable All Father? Now that's something I'd like to see."

The harsh contours of Pepper's expression eased just as a harried waitress approached their table. They both turned to face her, and she gave them a strained but genuine smile. "I was wondering when you were going to show up, Mr. Stark." She turned to Pepper. "May I take your order now, Governor Potts?"

Pepper nodded. "I'll have the stuffed cucumbers with potato gratin," she said as she handed her menu over.

The waitress wrote it down and turned to Tony, whose menu sat untouched next to him. He gathered it with a shrug. "I'll have what she's having and a glass of ale."

"Yes, sir," the waitress said. "Can I get you anything else?"

They both shook their heads, and the waitress hurried on to her next table. After she was gone, Pepper picked the conversation up again, this time without the scathing tone. "What about you? From what I've heard, you've actually been going head to head with an Aesir."

Tony was groaning before she finished speaking. "Who told you about that?"

"Rhodey," Pepper answered, and Tony groaned again. Of course Rhodes was the one to rat him out. "So it's true then? You're really fighting with the General?"

"You could put it that way, though honestly it's not that exciting. Normally I just end up shouting at Loki while he completely ignores everything I say."

The mere of thought of Loki's smug dismissal made Tony's blood boil. He grabbed his glass of ice water, wished that it was ale, and chugged it down. The table shuddered when he set the empty cup back down.

Pepper watched his little show with a raised eyebrow, and then the corners of her lips curled upwards. "If you hate it so much, why don't you quit? The Tony Stark I know would never let some big brass bully him into something he doesn't want to do."

It took Tony a moment to understand what Pepper and her knowing smirk were suggesting.

"Woah, no. I am not working on Lockheart because I like Loki. Loki is-" Tony waved his hands, trying futilely to encompass the vast amounts of frustration that came with the general. "He's _unbearable_. I never know if he's flirting with me, or wanting to sic the dragon on me, or what."

"Then why do you stay?" Pepper asked, though judging by the fact that her smirk remained, she hadn't dismissed her previous notion.

"Those dragons are outdated. It'd be a crime to leave them that way," Tony insisted. "People praise my father for his work on them, but he had to have been drunk to make them so inefficient." He snorted unpleasantly. "It's no wonder that his dragon got his dumb ass killed. And now Loki seems convinced to do the same. He almost died two months ago—any reasonable person would take that as a sign to stop."

"Like you're one to talk," Pepper said, looking pointedly at the thin white scar nearly hidden by Tony's hairline.

"I haven't caught the smithy on fire in months," Tony defended. "But seriously, you should see Lockheart. That dragon has become a work of art. The only downside is the ridiculous hours Loki enforces. I bet that office of yours has been really quiet these days now that I have no free time."

Pepper rolled her eyes. "I do more than listen to complaints about your behavior, Tony, though I won't deny that it's a blessing not having to manage you, too. Still, I wish I get to hear more about what you've been up to. How's that armor of yours going?"

A wide grin stretched across Tony's lips. "Amazing. You think that the dragons are awe-inspiring? Wait until you see my suit. I've only finished the top half, but when I'm done, it'll be able to fly and take out any Chitauri weapon. Who cares that I don't have the magic needed to power a dragon? With my suit, I'll be even stronger."

"It does sound formidable," Pepper said. "I look forwards to seeing it. Though I must admit that I'm surprised you're not interested in the Chitauri's steam engines. They don't require magic and can still power vehicles larger than ours."

"So? Tanks and trains aren't going to win this war. What we need to focus on is eradicating the Queens, not continuing useless battles against the drones."

Pepper shook her head. "Things aren't as simple as that. As much as we want it to, this war won't end in a few months. What we need to focus on is keeping ourselves alive in the long run, and that means better transports to keep the city fed. I've been watching Eskrine's progress on the train and can't wait for it to be finished."

"You... have a good point," Tony admitted. "But I'd still rather make weapons. At least then the results are obvious."

A plate slid in front of Tony, and he started, not having realized that the waitress had returned. She set another plate down in front of Pepper and wiped her palm on her uniform. "Anything else I can get you?" she asked, already backing towards the stairs.

"No thank you," Pepper said, and the waitress was gone. This time, the conversation didn't resume immediately. Instead, they both turned to their food, and Tony quickly realized he was famished. He dug in, making quick work of his potato gratin, while Pepper ate at a more sedated pace.

When she was half way done, Pepper set down her fork. "It really has been nice seeing you again, Tony. These days, it's hard to find a reason to keep fighting, you know? I just wish I had more time for moments like this."

"You will eventually," Tony replied earnestly. "Just you wait. Once my suit is finished, I'm going to take down Thanatos and finally close those portals."

"I'll hold you to that," Pepper said softly as she picked up her fork. The next time she spoke was when her plate was clear.

"As much as I've enjoyed our dinner," she said, pushing her hair over her shoulder and reaching for her chatelaine purse, "I can't stay any longer. I have multiple meetings tomorrow, and food rations need to be finished before storm season."

"I wish I could say that I wasn't in a similar situation," Tony said, rising from his seat. "Loki's squad is leaving first thing in the morning, and he wants Lockheart's gears to be sanded before then."

They walked from the crowded restaurant and towards the carriages. Pepper's was still in the same place, though this time, there was a man next to it. He was leaning against the wooden frames, his eyes squinting at everyone walking down the street. When they approached, his attention snapped to them, and he straightened.

"Governor Potts," he greeted, tilting his head in her direction. "Mr. Stark."

"I thought I told you not to be so formal with me, Happy," Tony said, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Two men cannot spend a night trapped in a wine cellar together and not be on a first name basis."

"Calling you by your first name would be unprofessional. And don't call me 'Happy' when I'm on duty. It ruins the image." Happy shifted his tie and puffed out his chest, which did nothing to make him seem intimidating. He turned proudly towards Pepper. "I kept the area secure for you. There were a few suspicious individuals loitering around, but I scared them off."

Pepper sighed and shared a bemused look with Tony. They both knew that said 'suspicious individuals' were probably just people trying to run their evening errands. "Thanks, Harold. Can you bring me home now?"

"Sure thing, Governor." The bodyguard-cum-driver strode to the front of the carriage to check the horses' harnesses. As he was doing that, Pepper asked Tony, "Would you like a ride home?"

Glancing down at the barren, dimly lit roads, Tony offered a halfhearted protest. "You live in the opposite direction from me."

"It doesn't matter. I'll be glad for the extra time to talk."

Tony relented and followed Pepper into the back of the carriage. Up front, Happy had finished inspecting the horses and climbed into the coachman's seat. He glanced back at them and raised an eyebrow when he saw Tony sitting beside Pepper. "Is he coming back to your house?"

"What? _No_," Pepper said indignantly. "We're taking him back to the smithy."

Happy held up the hand that wasn't holding the reins in surrender. "I wasn't trying to make any assumptions. Just saying it wouldn't be a surprise if you two wanted to do," he made a vaguely obscene gesture, "_that_ again."

"That was in the past," Pepper said, "and that's where it'll stay."

"Yes, ma'am." Happy gave her a sloppy salute and urged the horses forwards. The carriage jolted into motion, but after a few feet, the motion smoothed in a steady roll.

Breathing out slowly, Pepper faced away from Tony. However, he didn't need to see her face to read the tightness in her body and know that Happy's insinuation had upset her. He understood how she was feeling: a few years ago, their relationship had been going great. Everyone thought that they would get married, move in together, and finally settle down. But while the notion seemed grand, they both found that in practice, it wasn't what they wanted. Pepper already faced fierce opposition to her career, and as a married woman, it would have only gotten worse. For Tony, the intimacy of a committed relationship had made him feel exposed in a way that he couldn't tolerate.

They had lasted a year before Pepper called it off. Tony wished that he could say he regretted it, but in the end, she deserved better than him, and he... Well, he's always found it easier to lie with strangers.

Despite Pepper's statement that they could use the carriage ride to talk, she remained quiet as they traveled through the city. Tony fumbled for something that would break the silence, and at last he said, "Tell me more about your work. What are your meetings about?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Pepper's shoulders slowly relaxed. "The first one is with the city architects," she said, turning to face him. "We've been wanting to expand the northern districts but haven't had to materials to spare. Now though we might be able to do it if we make a deal with the dwarves. They're offering supplies and labor in exchange for more soldiers to reinforce the routes to Muspelheim. After that, I'm settling two port disputes, renewing our trade contract with Broughton, and meeting with the governor of Albesaa."

"Sounds like an exciting day," Tony said blithely, and Pepper smiled.

"It's not the worst I've had."

The carriage abruptly started to slow, and when Tony glanced out the window, he was disappointed to see that they had arrived at his smithy. A part of him was hoping that Happy would keep driving, but the horses came to a stop, and he sighed.

"I guess this is goodbye for now," Tony said, his hand reaching for the door but not opening it. "Send a messenger my way next time you're not working, alright?"

"I will," Pepper promised.

Tony hesitated another second before pushing the door open. He stepped into the night and, with one last wave to Pep and Happy, walked across the street. The carriage pulled away as he slid his key into the lock and pushed the door open.

Inside the smithy, the only sign of life was the lone candle burning on Bruce's desk. Tony walked to it, fetching a lantern on the way. Once the gas lamp was ignited, he pinched the shrinking wick and headed towards his own workspace.

Before he got there, the gleam of silver caught Tony's eye, and he stopped. The pieces of his suit were shoved into a pile far from the forge, pushed aside to make space for Lockheart's gears. When Tony went to them and ran his fingers along the curved metal, dust clung to the white of his gloves.

'Soon,' he thought as he lifted the mask from the top of the pile and rubbed its surface clean. 'Soon I'll be able to end this the damn war.'

Tony held the mask in the air, shifting it to see if any dust remained, and his distorted reflection stared back at him. He met its eyes, and then with a sigh, he set the mask down. His feet brought him away from his suit and to his desk, where there were pieces of a dragon that, no matter how fascinated he was with, he'd never be able to control.


	6. Chapter 6

Cotton slid against metal as Natasha tightened Black Widow's saddle bags. After she yanked the straps as far as they could go and could no longer slide her fingers beneath, she buckled them down and gave the fidgeting dragon a firm pat. Eager, Black Widow flared its wings and tensed its legs, making the gears whir and the pistons hiss.

As Natasha mounted, her eyes slid to her partner, but he was not as focused as she was. Instead of tending to his dragon, he was leaning against it while blatantly staring at the figures across the yard. They didn't notice the attention, however, too wrapped up in their own conversation.

While a part of Natasha was inclined to copy Clint's actions, she knew that there were more pressing matters to tend to. "Clint," she called, guiding Black Widow closer to Hawkeye, "we need to get moving."

Clint glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, but he remained where he was. After a half-belligerent, half-delighted shout drifted over to their ears, Clint said, "Honestly, I don't know whether to be amused or nauseated. That Stark fellow has the General acting like a dame."

Natasha leaned forward against her dragon's neck and arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps that's because Loki is, in fact, a 'dame'."

Clint rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Natasha asked. Her eyes bore into the side of Clint's head, and he raised his hands in surrender.

"Alright, sorry. Poor choice of wording. Not dame. Ain't anything wrong with being a woman. Loki's acting lovesick is all I'm trying to say. Her and Stark both."

A shift in the wind made indecipherable noises into words, and both Natasha and Clint quieted to hear them.

"...return tomorrow to fix it," Loki said as she circled Lockheart.

Stark watched the General from his perch next to the equipment shed. He repetitively tossed his top hat into the air as he replied, "I fixed that leg two days ago. Reckless idiot. I'm starting to think you like having me here."

Loki came to a stop and looked over her shoulder at the man. "Don't flatter yourself, blacksmith, or I'll hire someone else."

Stark laughed, missing his top hat on its way back down from a careless toss. Abandoning it in the dirt, he said, "Do you really think that'll bother me? Or is your memory as faulty as that scrap heap of yours?"

Though the ocean breeze died down, taking with it teasing words, Loki and Stark's actions filled the gap. The General stalked over to Stark and scooped the hat off the ground. When Stark tried to reach for it, Loki raised it high and twirled away, a smirk prominent on her lips. She continued to smirk even as Stark leapt down from the barrel and stormed over to her.

"I think you might need to revise your definition of 'lovesick,'" Natasha said as Stark came to a stop before Loki, their chests practically touching, and grabbed for the previously undesired hat. Loki used her height to her advantage and held the hat far over her head. Stark's frustrated shout was audible even without the wind.

Clint shrugged. "Maybe. But then again, you and I acted like that at one point." He turned back towards her with a lopsided grin. "Look where we are now."

The corners of Natasha's lips curled up softly. It was a subtle shift, one that many couldn't distinguish from her usual face, but Clint saw and answered in turn. For a brief moment, they reveled in each others' attention, and then Natasha looked away.

She shoved away from Black Widow's neck and settled into the saddle. With a stern tug on the dragon's reigns, she guided it away from Hawkeye. "Let's go," she said as her dragon spread its slender wings.

Clint delayed for a second, his attention wandering back to the scuffle happening at the stable, before following her lead. His joking persona was put aside as he leapt onto Hawkeye and pulled goggles over his head. Only thin-pressed lips were visible as the dragons rose from the ground with the ease of a well-oiled machine.

Stark and Loki faded into nothing more than specks, and then they weren't visible at all. The dragons went southwest towards the desert.

Over the years, the Chitauri had done to the land what it had done to its people; what had once been steppe and savannah was now as arid and brittle as bone. The only signs of life in the cracked wastes west of Odessa were the vultures circling overhead, searching for corpses to feast on. Human, elf, Chitauri- their appetite discriminated against none.

"Hold up," Clint said abruptly, raising his arm and yanking Hawkeye to a stop.

Black Widow flew past him then circled around to his side. For once, the desert wasn't howling, and Natasha didn't have to raise her voice to ask, "What do you see?"

"A tunnel," Clint answered. "And a large one at that."

Natasha squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun against the sand, but even then, she couldn't see the tunnel Clint spoke of. All she saw were the windblown rocks and desecrated battlefields. Still, she didn't hesitate to draw her gun from its halter as they descended.

It wasn't until they were a few hundred feet above the ground that Natasha saw what had caught Clint's keen eyes: there was a hole in the parched earth, partially hidden by the butte that towered over it. It's diameter was seven, maybe eight feet across, and the sides were caked with a thick brown paste. When the wind followed the curvature of a dune up from the ground, Natasha covered her nose against the all too familiar stench of Chitauri dung.

The dragons landed softly on either side of the tunnel. Clint remained on Hawkeye while Natasha dismounted, and as she slowly approached the opening, he stood watch.

"Have there been any sandstorms in this area since the one earlier this month?" Natasha asked as she leaned over the edge and peered into the darkness. With a grimace, she crouched down and ran her hand along the hardened dung supporting to tunnel. It remained unbroken even when she smacked the heel of her palm into it.

"Not that I've heard of."

Natasha nodded and wiped her fingers through the sand, though she knew it'd not remove the stench. "The lining is still intact. They must have built this after the army collapsed the tunnels outside Odessa." She turned towards the city, but all she could see were the mesas that stretched between Odessa and Albatyn. "Surely a patrol would have noticed a tunnel this large."

"Think that goes to Casavala?" Clint asked, but before Natasha could answer, his head darted to the side. She frowned as he squinted into the distance.

"What is it?"

"Not sure." Clint leaned over Hawkeye's back until he was almost out of the saddle. "It's too far away." He slid back onto the dragon and gears locked his legs in. Turning to her, he said, "I'm going to go check it out. What about you?"

"I'll stay here and see what direction this tunnel heads. Collapse it if I can."

Clint nodded. "Be careful. We're here to investigate, not fight the war alone. "

At Natasha's nod, Hawkeye rose from the ground in a maelstrom of dust. Once he was clear of the ground, Natasha scrubbed the grit from her eyes and turned towards her dragon. From inside of Black Widow's saddle bags she withdrew a bandana, lantern, compass, and stick of dynamite.

After lighting the lantern and tying the bandana around her mouth and nose, Natasha went to the edge of the hole and, after checking one last time that the coast was clear, ventured into the tunnel. Sand crunched underfoot for a couple of steps before giving way into brittle dung and mud. The floor angled downwards for over three dozen feet, and then it leveled off. The tunnel stretched indefinitely into the darkness.

The sunlight at Natasha's back faded, leaving only her lantern to reveal the faint traces of three-pronged footprints in the scattered debris. She leaned down to investigate the marks, tightened her grip on the dynamite, and continued deeper into the tunnel.

From the surface, one could never have guessed the complexity and vastness of the Chitauri's underground fortresses. But once inside, the scope of the enemy became daunting. Pathways split in dozens of different directions, and Natasha knew that if she wandered down them, they'd never end. It always reminded her of the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, but she couldn't decide whether or not she was the monster or the hero in this version of the story.

As she walked, Natasha kept her footsteps quiet and light low. The tunnels were empty now, but she knew that could change in a split second. If the Chitauri found her down here, she'd need all the advantages she could get to outrun them.

Natasha passed a small alcove filled with chitin flakes, torn cotton, and rat bones. Beyond it, there were at least ten more nests that she could see, but she knew that there were hundreds, if not thousands, more in this mound alone.

It became clear to Natasha that she had gone too far in, and she came to a stop. Had she come with a extermination party, she could have traveled further, but alone, she was more likely to become a meal to the Chitauri than an executioner.

Natasha crouched down and held the dynamite's wick up the the lantern's flame. As she worked, she listened carefully for any life within the tunnels. Thankfully, the only sound was the dynamite sizzling in her hands.

Natasha rose swiftly to her feet and, with a powerful throw, hurled the explosive deeper into the tunnels. Its flickering light illuminated a human skull half-buried in one of the nests, and when Natasha caught sight of the remains, her stomach twisted.

'If only for this story,' she finally decided, 'I am the hero. Someone else gets to be the monster.'

Then she turned around and ran as fast as she could. The dynamite vanished behind twisting corridors, but that hardly assured her safety. She pushed her legs as hard as should could, not caring how much noise she made. A few Chitauri she could handle. Burying herself alive, however, was another matter.

Far too soon, the dynamite reached the end of its fuse, and the resulting explosion shook Natasha down to her bones. Her knees gave out beneath her, and she smacked hard into the heaving earth. A groan was forced from her lungs, but it was lost in the sound of shattering glass and the distant shrieks Chitauri. The tunnels were coming down, crushing those unfortunate enough to be at the epicenter.

For a moment, as chunks of dried dung fell all around her, Natasha was convinced that she was one of those unfortunates. But then the tunnels finally stilled, leaving the rider with nothing worse than bruised bones.

Without the light of the lantern to orientate her, it took Natasha a moment to remember how her limbs worked. Her arms protested as they pushed her upwards, and her legs felt gelatinous. But at last, with all of her concentration, she managed to stand. She didn't stay standing for long.

One second she was stooping down to pick up her broken lantern, and the next, she was on her back with the air knocked from her lungs. A Chitauri towered over her, and before she could move, it caged her against the ground with its body. A scaly hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

"What are you doing here?" the creature hissed, its voice lisping over the rows of needle-like teeth that protruded from beneath its mandibles. "No one is supposed to be here."

Gasping for breath, Natasha shoved her head against the ground. Air leaked into her lungs, but before her body was satisfied, the Chitauri tightened its grip. Natasha's fingers scrambled to open the holster on her waist as black spots eroded the world. The latch refused to budge.

'Not now,' she begged. 'Of all the times to get stuck, please not now.' Her chest burned as if it was on fire, and the holster that she had been promised was top of the line continued to spite her.

'Useless.' Natasha's lips curled as she abandoned her efforts. She wrapped her hands around the Chitauri's wrist. Nails dug into the fleshy gaps between its shell.

The alien reared back and tried to use its other hand against her, but Natasha was faster. She utilized the opening that it had created to slam her knee into the space between their bodies. Then, with the Chitauri as her springboard, she flung herself away and onto her stomach.

Natasha allowed herself one full breath before she was in motion again. Her fingers dug into the rigged frass, and as the Chitauri tried to pin her again, she clawed her way onto her knees. There was a squelch as she slammed her elbow into the insectoid's protruding eye.

Normally when a Chitauri was wounded, it made no noise. It didn't need to; drones felt no pain. Knights, however, were special, and as Natasha finally pried her holster open with both hands, her opponent let loose a frantic series of clicks and hisses that she had come to associate with screaming.

Three ridged fingers gripped the back of Natasha's uniform as she lurched to her feet, and she barely managed to grab her gun as she was yanked backwards. She twisted around to face the Chitauri, but the instant she shot into the darkness, she knew that she had missed.

An arm caught Natasha across the chest, nearly knocking her down again, but this time she bore the weight. With a deep groan, she lifted the alien into the air as and tossed it behind her. Then, before it could regain its wits, she shot at rustling in the dark.

An outraged hiss confirmed that she had hit her target, but judging by the frantic movements, she had only wounded it. She leveled her gun to fire again, but when she pulled the trigger, the gun did nothing but click. In the darkness, everything went silent.

Natasha knew that the knight was still there, watching her. She felt its keen eyes raise the hair on her arms, and its peculiar stench- a mixture of gunpowder, frass, and blood -wafted through her nose. She cautiously knelt to drop her gun and slid a knife from her boot. Then, in an effort to draw the knight out, she said, "Even if you kill me, you won't protect your Queen. My partner has already flown back to Midgard. He'll tell everyone that she's here."

The knight didn't respond, and when it lunged at her again, Natasha failed to dodge completely. Its arm smacked into her forehead, making her stumble, but she recovered quickly. Her arm ensnared the alien, but though the rider was far from weak, she was slowly overpowered by brute force.

'This ends now.'

Natasha rotated the knife in her fingers. With the hilt now firmly in hand, she jabbed the blade as hard as she could into her opponent. Thick, black blood oozed over rough chitin and onto Natasha's skin.

Even as the Chitauri wailed in its peculiar way, it continued its efforts to kill Natasha. Her head smacked into the wall as she was shoved backwards, and her knife tore loose. The Chitauri hit her again, making her vision erupt with light and her ears ring. But as it made to hit her a third time, she ducked.

Instead of slamming the knife into whatever she could reach, Natasha aimed for the source of her foe's furious chittering. The first strike slid across chitin with a dull sound, but the second hit home with a horrendous squelch.

At once the hiss became a gurgle, and the Chitauri staggered backwards. Natasha went with it and they both toppled to the ground. Straddling the alien with her legs, Natasha twisted the knife, tore it out, and brought it down again. Something popped beneath her blade. The Chitauri went silent.

Breathing harshly, Natasha slid off the alien and dragged herself towards the wall. She put her head between her knees, but her pose did little to quell her nausea. Blood oozed down her forehead towards her eyes.

At some point during the fight, Natasha's bandana had fallen from her face and was now nestled above her collar bones. She untied it, wiped the blood off her face, and held it to the cut above her eye. Inside her chest, her heart continued to thrum with adrenaline. She had killed the knight, but only time could tell when another Chitauri would find her. However, when she tried to stand, the world tilted sharply. If it wasn't for the arm that rested on the wall, she would have fallen flat on her face.

With a groan, Natasha sunk back to the ground. The hand holding the bandana fell limply beside her, and she rested her brow against the wall. It was testament to how tired she was that she didn't even wrinkle her nose as the stench of insect waste flooded her nostrils.

A few minutes passed before Natasha tried to stand again. Each movement was painfully slow, and she waited for the ground to stop tilting before abandoning the wall. Then she shuffled around with half-steps, infinitely glad that her teammates weren't there to witness her nearly fall over her lantern.

It was a miracle that the broken light still had enough fuel in it to spark, though the flame flickered sadly in the cracked glass. Still, it was enough for Natasha to inspect the corpse at her feet, and her worry that the knight still lived was alleviated when she saw the results of her finishing blow: her blade had gone straight through the knight's eye and into its brain.

Other than the stab wound, there wasn't much to see: the knight was completely unarmed, and its only adornment was the thick stripe of dry, white mud that ran down the center of its shell. Those two details, however, were enough to tell Natasha plenty, and while she couldn't fathom why a knight from Thanatos was on diplomatic business so far east, she knew Loki would be interested.

Natasha turned her attention to the tunnel the knight had come from. It branched away from the one she had come through, and a quick glance at her compass indicated that it went north, towards the battlefieds.

Satisfied with her findings, Natasha tore her knife from the body and made her way out of the Chitauri stink hole. It took less than half a mile of walking for the lantern to die, and when it did, Natasha left it behind. She didn't need it; she could feel a draft coming from the exit, and she let it guide her through the remaining corridors. At last she saw sunlight ahead and picked up her pace.

When she was still over a hundred feet away from the exit, a dark shape appeared abruptly at the tunnel's mouth. Its outline was jagged, shifting. Alien. She slowed, but it was already too late; she had been heard. The Chitauri stepped closer.

There was no way for Natasha to go but forwards. She gripped the knife tightly, tensed her muscles, and ran. Already she knew where she'd strike. Go for the jugular. If that was blocked, then go for the intestines. Stick the knife in between the fifth and sixth ridge of the abdomen, where the most important organs were. If that failed, go for the-

"_Woah_," the figure shouted as she prepared to lunge, knife raised parallel with her head. "It's just me, Nat!"

Natasha blinked and dug her heels into the ground. The knife lowered. "_Clint_?"

"Of course," Clint said, stepping closer with his arms out to the side. Now that he was no longer silhouetted by the sun, it was obvious that he wasn't a Chitauri. It was an embarrassing mistake to have made. "Who else were you expecting?" Then he caught sight of the blood, and his eyes widened.

Before Clint could fret, Natasha said, "It's fine. I handled it." She continued walking, her shoulder brushing against his as she passed. Sunlight at last touched her skin, and strong winds blew fresh air into her lungs. She soaked it in.

Black Widow, who had been lying in wait on the top of the butte, leapt down and bounded over to Natasha. It nudged her arm with its narrow snout, and Natasha gratefully accepted the support.

She turned to Clint, who was standing guard between her and the tunnel. "Did you come across any Chitauri?"

"Nah. Just a group of soldiers from Odessa. They were collecting scraps from the battlefield."

Natasha frowned. "The battlefield?"

"That's what they said. Why?"

"The knight that attacked me had come from the battlefield. Did they mention seeing any Chitauri?"

"Not that I can recall." Clint glanced back the way he had come. "Do you really think that the two are connected?"

"I'm not sure yet. It might be nothing. I _hope_ it's nothing. But it's better safe than dead. Did you recognize any of the soldiers?"

Clint scratched the back of his head. "No, sorry. Though I also didn't see all of them. Some of them remained in the wagon." Natasha sighed, and Clint winced. "I'm guessing I should have investigated further?"

Despite her frustrations, Natasha shook her head. "You had no reason to be suspicious of them. The military sends caravans to collect scraps all the time. Loki's even had us do it before. For all we know, it's just a coincidence. The knight could easily have passed by that area undetected."

Except Natasha had seen too much, done too much, to believe in coincidences. She climbed into Black Widow's saddle and wrapped the reigns around her fists. "Take me to where you found the soldiers. We'll follow their trail and see for ourselves what they were doing."

Clint nodded and mounted his dragon. As they flew, the wind continued to pick up into a steady roar. Judging by the tan haze blotting out the horizon, a sandstorm was quickly approaching from the southwest. They urged their dragon's to go faster as the sands started to come alive below them.

A few miles passed before Clint slowed to a stop. "This is where I saw them," he called over the howl of the wind. "I'm going down. Watch my back."

Hawkeye descent was made choppy by the rough winds, and Natasha kept an eye on the oncoming wall of sand as well as the ground. She had to keep a tight hold on her dragon to keep them from being blown away, and below, Clint struggled to walk against the oncoming storm. His clothes snapped around him, and he lost his balance a few times as he leaned down to inspect something on the ground. But he kept at it, circling the area multiple times and leaving no scrap unturned. It wasn't until the sandstorm was almost upon them and Natasha was considering ordering him back onto his dragon that he abandoned his task.

Though Natasha hoped for answers, Clint shook his head as Hawkeye approached. "I couldn't find anything definitive. The wind had already blurred their prints enough that it'd take hours to unscramble them." He chuckled deprecatingly. "Shitty time for a sandstorm, huh?"

"Depends on who you're asking," Natasha said with a scowl. Despite her expression, though, Natasha was not angry. No- she was worried. _Afraid_. Because the only people she knew that would use something as commonplace as a sandstorm to disguise their movements were the people who had trained her, and if they were involved...

Clint nudged his dragon closer to hers. "I'm not liking that face you're making there, Nat. What're you thinking?"

Natasha swept her gaze across the barren sands, and the burning of her wounds keenly reminded her of what laid beneath the surface. "I'm thinking that we are in far more trouble than we had thought."


	7. Chapter 7

Wind whistled past Loki's ears as Lockheart descended rapidly, narrowly avoiding the spires of the fort's towers. The dragon's gears screeched as flared its wings wider. Air pushed the canvas taut, and Loki pressed himself tightly to his mounts neck as the entire machine shuddered.

Lockheart hit the ground with a clang and stumble. Its hind legs buckled, nearly sending both it and its rider into the dirt. Loki held tightly to the dragon's neck as it groaned pitifully, and he echoed the sentiment with a groan of his own.

As one, dragon and rider slumped forwards. Lockheart's glowing chest came to rest in the dirt, and Loki laid his throbbing head against gleaming gold plates. Sunlight beat down against the general's exposed neck, but the salty breeze chased away the sweltering heat. He let out a long sigh and willed the tension from his muscles.

Loki would have been content to stay like that for hours, but he could see a small crowd gathering across the field. Soldiers had stopped their activities to stare at him, pointing fingers and whispering amongst themselves. The distance was too far for Loki to hear their words, but he didn't have to; their fear was clear. After all, what chance did they stand if the general himself continued to return from the front lines in ruin?

Loki forced himself to move. He slid from Lockheart's back with a facsimile of his usual grace, using the dragon's body as a crutch. His legs, especially the left, protested baring his weight after spending almost ten hours pinned to Lockheart's side.

Pushing past the pain, Loki grabbed Lockheart's reigns and tugged the dragon forwards. With a heaving groan, the machine began walking. Each step caused Lockheart to lurch, and they had only made it a few feet when the dragon slowed. Loki paused and glanced back at its hind legs; the metal was crushed, and a few of the gears were on the verge of falling off.

They had barely reached the dirt field by the shed when a gear at last fell out. Metal screeched and Lockheart crashed to the ground as its legs collapsed. Though the dragon attempted to stand again, its hind legs wouldn't respond.

"Guess this spot is as good as any," Loki muttered and released the reigns. "Now where is a stablehand when I need one..."

He surveyed the field but saw no sign of a mechanic. He did, however, spot a young woman hiding in the shadowed corner between the barracks and offices. Her hair was hidden beneath an aviator cap, and her plain uniform was unbuttoned halfway. In her hands was a book that she eagerly flipped through.

Loki stalked towards her, his footsteps becoming more even as he moved. The woman continued to read, her lips moving silently with each word and her feet tapping against the barrel she sat on. When Loki stopped in front of her, she didn't seem to notice his presence. Even clearing his throat didn't get her to look up.

"Darcy," he snapped at last, and she started, the book flying out of her hands with a shout. The book landed on the ground, its place lost, and she nearly knocked her perch over. Loki reached over to slam the barrel back into the ground, and the cadet breathed heavily.

"Oh my god. You can't go around doing that to people! What if I had a heart attack? What if I broke my skull? I'd have sued you!"

"And then you'd have to explain why you were reading instead of doing your drills like the other trainees," Loki said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Darcy looked embarrassed for only a moment before brushing it off. "It's not my fault that those drills are so boring. Besides, the others are all freshies. I've already got a dragon of my own in the works. I don't need to practice with those stupid gliders anymore."

"I think you'd find some more practice would do you well, if you're so easily startled." Darcy opened her mouth to complain, but Loki didn't let her speak. "I have a job for you. Fetch blacksmith Stark and bring him here."

"What? Now?" Darcy looked down at her book in dismay. "That's almost an hour walk, and I was just getting to the good part!"

"Your book will still be here when you return," Loki said, turning away. He tuned out the cadet's continued protests, confident that she would eventually do as he asked, and returned to his dragon's side.

There were numerous tasks for him to do, even with his mount out of commission, but the ground by Lockheart's side was looking abnormally comfortable.

'Just for a few minutes,' he told himself. 'Then I'll return to my office and finish my report.'

But when he let his body slide to the ground, his back resting against the shed, he couldn't keep his eyes open. His head lolled to the side, and his arms went slack.

'Just a few minutes,' he reminded himself.

The next thing Loki knew, Stark was shaking him awake.

He groaned and pried his eyes open. There was a concerned, scraggly face mere inches from his own. Stark squeezed the general's shoulder and said, "Hey, there you are. I thought you'd never wake up."

It took Loki a moment to get his thoughts in order. "How long have you been here?"

"Few minutes," Stark said. "Watched you sleep for a while- you snore, did you know that? And then I tried to wake you." The man's brow furrowed. "You sleep like the dead."

Loki frowned. He had always struggled with waking up at the slightest noise in the barracks or palace halls. But as the war continued, exhaustion permeated his body and found a home in his bones, lingering there alongside his guilt and shame. Yet he could not stop, because his regrets would not let him. Even if at times he wanted to give up, or run away, it wasn't an option. He refused to be the coward that the Aesir always said he was.

Shaking his head, Loki braced his arm against Lockheart's side and began to stand. Stark released his shoulder a took a step back, but he watched Loki closely, prepared to intervene if the god collapsed. Worry was an expression unbefitting the man; Loki tried to make it go away.

"I would not have had to sleep had you not taken so long to get here," he said, leaning against his dragon's side.

"Don't blame me. I got here as soon as your little lackey told me you were back. Not sure why, since clearly it wasn't that urgent."

Stark had a point, but Loki wasn't going to admit that. "I'm certain any job I have for you is more important than what you normally do. Now then, are you going to continue talking or do your job?"

"Kind of hard to do my job when you're standing in my way."

Loki took a deep breath and pulled away from Lockheart. His muscles locked to keep him from swaying, and when the vertigo eased, he made a sweeping gesture towards the dragon. "Its all yours."

"Are you..." Stark started, not even paying attention to Lockheart. He ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and continued, "Are you okay? You seem... _Off_. Maybe you should, you know, take a break?"

Normally Loki would be infuriated by the insinuation that he couldn't handle himself- that he was too weak to take on the enemy -but instead he just felt scooped out and hollow. "Believe me," he murmured. "I would if I could." Then, before the conversation could fall into something too intimate, too vulnerable, he steered the conversation back to what Stark was here for. "One of the back gears is damaged. It needs to be fixed."

Stark let the previous topic drop with an exasperated half-huff, half-sigh. He stepped forwards to see the damage that had been covered when Loki was tucked against Lockheart's. His eyebrows raised.

"When you said damaged, I was thinking the minor sort of thing I have been fixing. That whole section is mangled. I'm surprised your dragon even managed to fly back here." The blacksmith leaned towards Lockheart, his fingers treading lightly along contorted ridges. "What happened?"

A better question would have been, 'What _hadn't_ happened?' but Loki wasn't in the mood to discuss what he had seen in the desert. Instead, all he said was, "I went down the wrong rabbit hole."

"Right. Well, I'm not gonna be able to fix this one easily. You'll need whole new parts in there. I'd say a few days, maybe a week, before you can fly again."

Loki shook his head. "I need it by tomorrow."

Stark gave him an odd look. "Tomorrow? That's an unreasonable request, even for you."

"I can't wait longer than that. But look on the bright side- after that, I won't need your services for a while."

Tony drew back from the dragon. "What are you talking about?"

Loki hadn't intended to eleborate, just give a non-descriptive response like he was supposed to, but he found his mouth moving before his brain could stop it. "The situation has escalated on the border. Odessa is almost lost, and the military won't be enough to save it. My riders and I are joining the Corp there to hopefully keep the Chitauri contained in the desert. If they spread... Well, we might all find ourselves turned into nothing more than beasts of burden, just like the Jotuns have."

Tony was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his usual bravado was gone. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. Maybe a few weeks if things go well. If they don't...Then who knows."

Though Loki shrugged, he knew it was not so simple. Given the way Stark was staring at him, he knew the man wasn't fooled either. Still, Stark didn't comment, and his focus returned to Lockheart.

"Tomorrow isn't possible, even if I rush," the blacksmith said as he appraised the damage. "I can get it to you by Saturday at the earliest."

Anxiety bubbled in Loki's chest. There was no time. He had to stop the Chitauri. He had seen them, their earthen mounds. They had infected the earth, and they were coming.

"I'm not paying you to get things done on Saturday," he snapped, his words coming out far harsher than he intended.

Stark stared coolly back at him. "If I gave you the pieces tomorrow, they'd be nothing more than molten metal. Saturday is all I can promise you. Besides," the man said, giving Loki a once-over, "you could use the break."

Though Loki wished to deny it, it was true. His body was protesting, and he knew that if he were to fly now, he'd be nothing more than a burden to his team. At most, he'd get them all killed.

"Fine," he said with a sigh. "Saturday. But no later."

Stark nodded. "Bring me Lockheart on Friday. I'll start attaching the parts then."

"You can't take him now?"

"Not enough room," the blacksmith said. "Besides," he gave a crooked grin, "It means I get to see you one more time."

The wane smile Loki returned was more of a grimace. "I thought you couldn't stand my presence."

"Yeah, well," Tony shrugged, looking away. "Doesn't mean I want you to get killed out there."

There was a long, somewhat awkward moment of silence, and Tony filled it by pretending to be interested in Lockheart's damaged legs. Or maybe he was interested. Loki was too tired to sort out the difference.

The moment was broken by the flapping of broad wings, and Loki looked up to see the other members of the First Corp returning. He sighed and turned to Stark. "I have matters to tend to. I'll bring Lockheart to you in two days."

Stark nodded and stepped away. "I'll hold you to that." He paused, as if he was going to say more, but then he huffed and turned around.

Stark walked away, and as the man's back faded, Loki realized that he'd miss these visits of theirs. They were the one thing in his life that interrupted the horrid monotony of war. But he would give them up a thousand times over if it meant that he could fix his mistakes. Already he had sacrificed so much- this small pleasure would be nothing.

But... he was glad that this, at least, _wasn't_ something he'd have to forsake forever. He'd return, and Stark would be waiting.


	8. Chapter 8

There were only a few things in the world that truly infuriated Steve Rogers: Chitauri, traitors, racists, xenophobes, bullies, asthma, sunburn, sand, barley soup...

Okay, so there was actually a lot of things that pissed Steve off, but normally he didn't encounter most of them in one place. Odessa, however, seemed to be designed for no other reason than to make his blood boil. The only thing that could make the city worse would be if sweet old Mrs. Bentz rose from her grave and forced a bowl of soup on him. It had tasted like rubbish, but Steve could never gather the nerve to turn her down. She was just trying to be kind, after all. So he would choke the overcooked barley down while Bucky cackled at his side, enjoying Steve's misfortune far too much for someone who was supposed to be his best pal.

Now, as he walked through the sandswept streets of Odessa, Steve would have gladly eaten a bowl of soup in exchange for leaving this hellhole.

"Ugh, I wish I got to go to Knowhere with Nat. This place is disgusting." Clint tugged his uniform away from his skin, trying and failing to aerate the wet spots growing under his arm and around his chest. Only he and Loki had chosen to remain in their standard issue jackets after the meeting, and it seemed that he was regretting that decision. "And I'm not just talking about the weather. I don't know how you deal with those assholes on a regular basis, boss."

Loki had been slowly increasing the distance between them since they left the barracks, each step heavy and sharp. At Clint's words, he glanced back at them and, upon noticing how far ahead he was, slowed.

"I usually to stop listening after a point," the general confessed. The fiery anger than had enveloped him since they arrived cooled into something closer to weariness. "Most days I wouldn't miss much."

But today, of course, had required their full participation. As much as everyone would like to forget that the Chitauri were lurking beneath the ground outside Odessa's walls, they couldn't. There came a time where one could no longer ignore an issue, and that time had arrived. Probably arrived long ago, honestly, but now Steve knew why it took so long for Loki to get missions authorized. The bureaucrats in that meeting acted as if they had all the time in the world.

"You'd think they'd be more invested in this war," Steve said, shaking his head angrily. "The elves, dwarves, Aesir- all of them. But they're just looking out for themselves."

Clint shrugged. "Humans are no different. If we weren't the ones under attack right now, we wouldn't be getting involved, either. I mean, we didn't do anything to help the Jotun, did we?"

"That's dif-" Steve started to say, but then he realized that it _wasn't_. He corrected himself. "We should have. Leaving them to fight alone makes us no different than the Aesir, and most people despise them for not helping us."

Realizing that Loki was still in earshot, Steve's head darted up, expecting a reprimand. The general was, after all, an Aesir himself. But Loki had returned to staring blankly ahead and didn't seem to hear the comment.

Clint groaned. "This is stressing me out. I need a drink. You guys want to join?"

Bucky answered immediately. "Hell yes."

Clint grinned. "Which means Steve's an automatic yes." Then he called to Loki, who had increased the gap between them again. "What about you, boss? You want to join us for a beer?"

Loki started and turned back to them. "No," he said after a moment. "I still have work to do."

"No offense, sir, but you could probably use the drink," Steve said. "You started working today before the rest of us even woke up."

Before Loki could reply, Clint said, "Eh, leave him be. He gets grouchy in the heat. Wouldn't be fun to have around anyway."

The general glared, and Clint gave Steve a look as if to say, 'See what I mean?'

"You could learn a think or two about respecting your superiors, Corporal," Loki said, but the words lacked bite. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You three go ahead. Just remember that we're flying tomorrow."

"Yes, boss!" Clint saluted before scanning the barren streets. Something must have caught his eye because he grinned and broke from the group, not bothering to check if anyone was following.

Bucky did, but Steve hesitated. He turned back to Loki, in case maybe the general had changed his mind, but Loki had already continued towards the walls. Steve sighed and jogged to catch up with the others, coughing as dust gathered in his throat.

The streets of Odessa were buried in both parts ash and sand. Beneath the heavy coating laid crumbled bricks and bullet casings. Everyone they passed on the streets wore a uniform. Any civilian that could leave Odessa had fled long ago, when the Chitauri had first laid siege to the city. The ones who remained either couldn't make the journey or were too hopeless to bother.

As the riders walked past a building that still reeked like smoke, Steve asked, "Do you think they'll send us to Thanatos again?"

Clint shrugged. "It's hard to tell. Though judging by how badly it went last time, I don't think we'll get approval, even if Loki is intent on trying again. Our unit is just too small now."

"At least the riders stationed here aren't complete asses. Wouldn't mind having one of them join us."

"Anyone but that Scott fellow is fine with me. He talks too much." They rounded a corner, and Steve squinted as he caught sight of blurry figures at the end of the street. Clint picked up his pace with a muttered, "Finally."

Their conversation ended as rambunctious voices bounced off the shell-worn walls. What had been indistinct blurs became a group of people loitering outside a bar, and there were dozen more inside. It seemed to Steve as if every off duty soldier in the town was at The Sandy Siren, chasing away the reality of war with liquor.

When the dragon riders stepped inside, eyes turned and followed them as they walked to a booth in the back corner. Bucky glared at anyone whose sight lingered, positioning himself between them and Steve. His metal fist rested threateningly on top of the splintered table.

"Lay off, Buck," Steve said as he reached over to unlock the window. It took a moment to get it open, since sand had clogged the hinges, and when he did, the air outside was no cooler than the air inside. "No one is going to start anything with us, and if they do, I can handle myself."

Bucky snorted in disbelief, but he leaned back in his chair and pulled his arm in. Facing Clint, he said, "Since you lost our bet, drinks are on you."

"Awwww," Clint whined, but he slid from the booth and headed for the bar. Once there, he began trying to charm the bartender into giving him a discount. The volume returned to the bar.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Bet?"

"Clint thought that Loki would forget about Stark in a month."

"Well, he _has_ done that before."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Not acting like this, he hasn't."

Clint returned with three pints and set them on the table. Bucky wasted no time grabbing one and chugging it. Steve followed at a slower pace, and the beer burned its way down his throat. He grimaced, and Bucky chuckled.

Not about to let his friend start teasing him for how badly he handled his liquor, Steve met Bucky's eyes as he took a large gulp. Not one to pass up a challenge, Bucky started drinking faster, and in less than a minute, both of their glasses were empty.

They set their tankards down and looked to Clint, but he shook his head. "I ain't paying for you two to get wasted the night before a mission. Do that with your own money."

"You're just saying that because you know you'd lose," Steve said, and Clint scoffed, sipping at his beer. The blond grinned and shot his friend a conspiratorial look. "But we understand, don't we, Buck?"

"Yep," Bucky agreed, leaning over the table. Clint eyed them both warily.

"In fact," Steve continued, "we know you don't _really_ even want that drink. So let us take that off your hands."

Before Clint could register the words, Bucky snatched his beer out of his hand and started drinking it. Clint spluttered out a complaint before scowling. "Oh, it's _on_," he said, shoving to his feet. "No one out drinks a carny."

He stormed off to fetch them another round, but when he slid back into his seat, a sudden tension fell over the room. Frowning, Clint turned to face the door, and Steve half-rose from his seat to see over the man's head.

A dwarf was making their way through the bar, head barely visible over the tables. Though the dwarf had to notice the sudden tension, they walked with pride with certainty. In their beard, bells and pendants clanked, displaying their military prowess for all to see. When the dwarf climbed onto a chair at the bar, Steve realized that he recognized them from the strategy meeting that afternoon.

"I'll take a shot of whiskey," the dwarf said, standing on their seat to see over the lip of the bar.

With a nod, the bartender grabbed an empty glass and began to fill it. But when he set the shot in front of the dwarf, a scathing voice from across the room said, "I didn't know you served pests at this establishment."

Steve craned his neck to make out the speaker. It was an elf, sitting in the opposite corner of the bar. Dark elf, he realized as he peered closer, though the name itself a misnomer. Unlike their surface-dwelling kin, the subterranean elves had adapted to living completely underground, and their skin had so little pigmentation that they often wore masks and cloaks to protect themselves from the sun.

Not about to let the elf disrespect a fellow soldier, Steve opened his mouth. He was stopped by a sharp tug on his elbow.

"Don't," Bucky said. "Let them settle it themselves. You don't want to get involved in that."

Steve snorted at the advice, but he held his tongue- for now -to watch events unfold.

The dwarf gripped their cup tightly and turned to face the elf. When their eyes met, the dwarf scoffed, "They already served you, didn't they, land-stealer?"

The elf's chair hit the ground with a thud as he jumped to their feet. The other occupants of the table, another dark elf and a human, also stood, though all the human did was rescue their drink from the shaking table and step back. He leaned against the wall as the two elves stood together, murky grey eyes alight with rage.

"Watch your tongue, _halflin_g," the first elf spat. "Our people are not to blame for your greed."

"A dark elf has no right to speak of greed, not when you are invading our land and making my kin starve!"

With an enraged yell, the elf lunged forwards, drawing a scimitar from his belt. In a second, the dwarf had their own weapon free of its sheath, and they leapt to the ground. The bartenders shout of, "No fighting indoors!" was ignored, and the blades sung as they collided.

Steve pulled his arm from Bucky's grasp and lurched to his feet. "Hey," he shouted, stepping towards the middle of the room. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, huh?"

Behind him, he could hear Bucky groan and Clint snicker, but his attention was on the elf, who had turned to face him. "'My own size?'" the elf asked, looking Steve up and down. "And you believe you are it? You're hardly taller than this half-man."

Steve bristled at the insult, but the dwarf spoke before he could retaliate. "I don't need a human to fight my battles for me," they declared, pushing their axe against the scimitar. The elf danced out from beneath the blade, letting it slice through empty air before darting back in. He thrust his weapon at the dwarf's head, but it was blocked once again.

A dagger slipped from the elf's sleeve. He slashed downwards, nearly hitting the dwarf's face, but they dodged at the last moment. Not quick enough, however, to keep the dagger from cutting into their beard. Strands of brown hair fell to the floor along with two charms.

The dwarf stared at the fallen ornaments and shouted in outrage. They charged the elf, putting all of their weight into their blade. It shoved the elf's scimitar aside and cut into his hip. With a cry, the elf staggered to the side, and red welled to the surface.

At the sight of the blood, the elf's companion leapt to his aide, but Steve intercepted her. Though he had no weapon, he wasn't completely unarmed; the magic that wasn't needed to power his dragon channeled into his arms, strengthening them. He ducked under the elf's blade as she prepared to throw it and knocked his forearm against hers. The dagger imbedded itself into the far wall.

Another dagger appeared in the elf's hands, and she attacked Steve. He fought back with equal vigor, and soon their fight mirrored the one happening a few feet away. The other patrons cleared the area, but they didn't go far. An audience had formed near the door, half amused and half annoyed. Behind the bar, the bartender stopped wasting breath on protesting.

Steve did his best to not let the elf put distance between them. He used his small size to his advantage, darting beneath her arms to land punches against her chest. She grit her teeth and tried to force her dagger between them. It nicked his arms, covering them in shallow cuts, but he persisted.

The fight dragged on, lulling into a familiar rhythm, and Steve got complacent. That's when the elf switched tactics. Her heel swung into Steve's temple, sending black dots across his vision. He stumbled backwards, banged into a table, and slid to the ground. The patrons sitting there lifted their drinks as the table shook and, when the enraged elf stormed closer, wisely vacated their seats.

That's when Bucky intervened. One second he was on the side, letting Steve handle things, and the next, he was standing with a foot on either side of the blond and a gun in his hand. The elf paused, watching him warily.

"I wouldn't step closer, if I were you," Bucky growled, finger tightening over the trigger.

Steve hauled himself from the floor, using the table for balance. At the sight of him standing, the female elf scowled and stepped forwards.

A gunshot rang through the bar. People shouted in surprise, and the male elf stopped mid-slash, eyes wide in surprise. The dwarf pulled their blade back, not taking advantage of the other's distraction. But the bullet wasn't lodged in the female elf's body; it was burrowed in the wood paneling of the floor.

"That's the only warning you'll get," Bucky said, raising the gun to point between the elf's eyes. "I promise that the next one will be for you."

Everyone was watching, waiting to see how events would unfold. The elf glanced between the gun, Bucky, and Steve, debating her choices. Clint stepped in before she could decide.

Slow clapping caught the bar's attention, and all eyes turned to the remaining dragon rider. He had risen from his seat, expression serious despite his mocking applause. The First Corps insignia was prominent on his shoulder.

"As entertaining as this has been," he said, lowering his hands, "I suggest that this stops now. Or have you all forgotten that we're on the same side?"

The male elf bared his teeth. "The dwarves will _never_ be my allies after what they have done, and neither is anyone who agrees with them. Get in my way, and I'll cut you down, too."

That's when the human who accompanied the elves stepped out from the crowd of spectators. He had been so quiet during the fight that Steve had almost forgotten he was there. "Ishvar," he said, and the elf faced him with a scowl. "This petty feud of yours is not worth it.

"Petty feud?" Ishvar hissed, swinging his blade to point at the dwarf. "These barbarians have continually denied my people refuge, forcing us to remain in the desert and the Chitauri's warpath. They pile our corpses to keep the insects out. It is not _petty_."

"Perhaps not," the human said. "But the mage is right. Malekith made an alliance with the dwarves. It would not reflect well on your leader if you killed an ally in the middle of a pub."

Though it was clear he wanted to do anything but, Ishvar sheathed his sword. "Be glad, dwarf. My companion just saved your life."

The dwarf laughed loudly, though it was not a mirthful sound. "Hardly. It was you, land-stealer, who just got spared."

Ishvar clenched his fist, but the female elf stopped him with a hand to his wrist. "Calm yourself, Ishvar. Rollins is right. We must remember what Malekith said." Then she put her lips mere inches from his ear and whispered something too quiet for Steve to hear.

"Fine," Ishvar said as she pulled away. "But only this time."

Without another glance at the dwarf, he strode to their table and grabbed the two masks lying there. He tossed one to his companion, and she fastened it to her face. He did the same, hiding his expression beneath the emotionless visage. They left the building side by side.

Rollins tossed his head back, finished off his tankard, and set the empty glass on the closest table. "Put the damages on my tab," he told the bartender, paying no mind the annoyance of the other patrons. At the man's nod, he gathered his bag and went to the door. On his way out, he glanced at the dragon riders with a calculating expression. Then he too was gone.

It didn't take long for the remaining patrons to shake off the tension and return to their drinking. The dwarf sheathed their blade and leaned down to pick up the ornaments that had been cut from their beard. One was a small, round pendant with a dwarvern symbol stamped on it. The other was a silver bell.

As the dwarf stared down at the two items with an expression of sorrow, Steve made his way to their side. "I'm sorry about your charms," he said. "Are you alright?"

"Good as I'll ever be, given the times," the dwarf groused, and with a sigh, they stuffed the fallen adornments into their pocket.

Steve offered his hand to shake. "I'm Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers. First Corp."

"Dragon rider, eh?" the dwarf said, scrutinizing Steve. "Don't look like one, but I'm not one to judge. Need all the soldiers we can get." They placed their hand in Steve's and gave a hearty shake. "Kahurangi. Brigadier General of the Third Division." With a nod to the bar, Kahurangi asked, "Care to join me for a drink?"


	9. Chapter 9

Outside Odessa's crumbling walls, a squadron of soldiers patrolled the desert. Each round brought them past an open tent a hundred yards beyond the city's main gate. It had only two walls and a roof, which billowed and snapped in the evening winds. Beneath the tent was a table, and on that table was an unlit lantern and a scorpion. The scorpion's tail laid flat as its brown carapace soaked in the last of the sun's rays.

When Loki ducked under the tent's awning and approached the table, the scorpion paid him no mind. Even when he leaned against the wind-worn wood, making the table shake, it just scuttled out from his shadow and resumed sunbathing.

A second shadow fell over the table, swallowing the scorpion. In the darkness, the insect's tail arched over its body.

"Disgusting creatures, aren't they?" the figure asked, leaning over to peer at the insect. "Hardy, though. They'd have to be in order to live in such an unforgiving environment."

Two more people came to a stop beside the table, though they spared the scorpion but a glance. Loki imagined they had thousands of the pests back in the caverns they called home. "We didn't come out here to discuss mere insects, General Pierce."

"Of course, Malekith. I meant no disrespect." Pierce continued watching the scorpion in rapt curiosity. He reached inside his pants pocket. "Though one could argue that the Chitauri are, at their core, 'mere insects'. Yet it's their insect nature that makes that so hard to kill, don't you agree?"

In the blink of an eye, Pierce had his pocketknife drawn and embedded into the table. Around the blade, the scorpion's body twitched in death throes. The general straightened, puling out his knife as he went. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the scorpion's body flying into the sand. The wind set to work burying it.

"Now then," Pierce said, wiping the knife clean on a handkerchief. "Let's get down to business."

He placed both items back into his pockets and motioned for one of his lieutenants to step forwards. She did so, setting a large chest on the table. Pierce opened it, and inside were large, rolled maps. He grabbed one, unrolled it, and pressed it flat for the others to see.

Loki and Malekith stepped forwards while the elf's right-hand man, Algrim, remained at a distance. On the map, black ink marked the Chitauri tunnels like arterial veins, the heart hiding far beyond the army's scope. Small circles indicated where the tunnels breached the surface.

"This is the most comprehensive survey we have of the Chitauri's whereabouts. It's not perfect, as I'm sure you're aware, but my soldiers have worked tirelessly to scout this area the past few months. All of their findings have been compiled here."

"There's a lot more tunnels here than what the Dragon Corp has reported," Loki observed. "Doesn't leave a lot of space to lead an army through." He reached around Pierce to glide a finger along dark lines. "I had thought that we could at least maneuver troops along the edge of the mesas to reach Casavala. Then we'd at least have shade for part of the day."

"I had hoped so too," Pierce said, "but we've noticed significant Chitauri activity in that area recently. It seems that they've connected their tunnels to the natural caverns in the area."

Loki frowned. "They shouldn't be that far east." Neither Natasha nor Clint had reported seeing Chitauri past the old battlefield, and they had confirmed that the tunnels they found went towards Casavala, not Albatyn. To hear that the Chitauri had overtaken the bluffs was so far outside of his expectations that it was almost unthinkable.

But Pierce was confident in his assertions, and Loki had no reason not to trust him. "And yet they are. Traversing the outcropping is too risky. We should go through here." Pierce pointed out a new path, one that went straight through the open steppes. "They wouldn't be expecting us to attack directly, and the majority of those tunnels were collapsed by my soldiers. The Chitauri would emerge into our awaiting forces."

Loki considered the other general's suggestion. Pierce was right that the Chitauri wouldn't expect them to march on Casavala directly, mostly because doing was usually suicidal. But with the tunnels in disarray, it could be worth the risk. The Chitauri would be disrupted, and the element of surprise might give the army the advantage that they sorely needed.

"What's your opinion, Lord Malekith?" Loki asked as he turned to face the elf, who was being unusually quiet. Malekith's murky eyes were pointed towards to map, but given the way they were squinted against the setting sun, he probably wasn't seeing much. It was times like this that Loki thought the elf was better off wearing a protective mask like the rest of his kin, but Malekith never wavered in his conviction to never hide the truth of what he was. Even when the sun scorched the elf's skin, he bore the pain of his people proudly.

Malekith turned his eyes towards Loki, then to Pierce, and scowled. "I don't think it's wise to go straight into enemy territory on a mere gamble. Not when my people will be the ones entering the tunnels. How do I know we won't be swarmed and left to die?"

Pierce smiled at the elf and rested a hand on his shoulder. Algrim stepped closer, but Malekith stopped him with a glance.

"Malekith, you have my word that we won't turn our backs on you," the Odessian general said. "You're our ally, aren't you?"

Malekith nodded, and with a squeeze, Pierce let his hand drop away. Algrim remained tense. "An alliance means little when we cannot be guaranteed the Chitauri's actions," he said. "I think the elves should take a less direct route, like the one Loki originally proposed."

While annoyance tainted Pierce's otherwise pleasant demeanor, he wasn't the one who spoke next.

"Algrim," Malekith said, his eyes now narrowed in more than just pain. "I shouldn't have to remind you of how important Pierce's support is to the dark elves. He has done as promised each time, and I intend to do the same. We _will_ take the center tunnels."

Algrim glanced between Pierce and Malekith with piercing blue eyes. His head bowed. "Of course, my liege. Though I may have been born on the surface, you know that protecting you and the dark elves will always be my top priority. Svartalfheim is my home."

"I know, Algrim," Malekith said, his voice suddenly weary. "I know." Then the elf looked up, and the steel returned to tone. "Will the Dragon Corps be taking the same route as the ground troops?"

"Not quite," Loki said. "Last I heard, the Chitauri's tanks are still being repaired in Galisteo. That will allow my riders to safely spread out. I will accompany the troops while the others clear the way."

The last bits of sunlight were swallowed by the horizon, taking with it the blood-red of the sky. Loki reached for the lantern and spun the flint dial. The sparks caught flame, and in the renewed light, he pointed to the map.

"I'll position dragon riders here and here. That'll enable us to take out as Chitauri as we can without risking your soldiers."

"Are you aiming to take out their Queen?"

"That's the hope. If we can kill the hive in Casavala, it will slow their advance."

"But for how long?" Malekith asked. "There will always be another Queen to take her place. Perhaps it'd be better to let them have Odessa. It is but one city. Humans can easily build another."

"You'll find that building a city isn't easy for any race," Loki said. At Malekith's glare, he continued, "I'm not trying to invalidate the dark elves' experience. Defending Odessa isn't about the buildings. The city is dead already. No one can deny that. But we can't let the Chitauri have it, because if they do, then they'll have a foothold with which to take the northeast. They'll be able to lay siege to Stuttgart and Albessa. Or maybe they'll turn their attention west to Svartalfheim. None of us will be safe if their reach continues to expand."

"Loki is right," Pierce said. "Our best course of action is to face the Chitauri head on. If we continue to run from them, we will be eradicated."

Malekith scrutinized the Odessian general before nodding. "If we've finished deciding a course of action, then I will inform my kin of our plan. We shall be ready to move at first light."

He turned and stalked from the command tent, Algrim following closely at his side. Now that night had fallen, the difference in the dark elf's movement was clear; his steps were confident in the darkness in a way they never were in the sunlight, and the rigidity that had gripped him was gone. In contrast, Algrim's movements had slowed, and even though he'd lived a lifetime in caverns, he couldn't replicate the effect of thousands of years of evolution.

The two elves disappeared inside Odessa's walls, but Loki was in no hurry to follow. The chill of the nighttime breeze eased the oppressive heat that had plagued him throughout the day, taking with it the ache that lingered deep inside his bones.

"I am surprised that you took to council's advice to not attack Thanatos again," Pierce commented as he began to roll up the map. "I would've thought that surely you, of all people, would be in favor of greater action."

"I _have_ pushed for greater action," Loki said, turning to the man. "But they were right that another attack would lead to nothing more than our deaths, especially when so many Queens have created hives outside the capital."

"That's a valid point." Pierce placed the map inside the wooden chest and closed it before turning his full attention to Loki. "It makes you wonder, though, if we humans can ever overtake Thanatos. Maybe we can't. Maybe not even the Aesir can. Maybe that's why the Bifrost has remained closed for the past decade."

Loki frowned. "What are you trying to say?"

"Have you ever considered that Asgard has had the ability to intervene this whole time and that they've simply chosen not to because they're _afraid_ of the Chitauri?"

"That's ridiculous," Loki snapped. "The Aesir are not cowards. Especially not their king"

At Loki's harsh tone, Pierce smiled placatingly. "My apologies. I know how much it must burn you to be unable to see your kin. The elves fight together, the dwarves fight together, the humans fight together. Even the Jotun, backwater monsters that they are, fight together." He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face the wind. "But you. You're the only Aesir on the front lines. The only one constantly in harms way to save this world. Surely you've wished that you could return home and leave us humans to our fate."

Loki took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay level-headed. It wasn't as if Pierce was unique in his sentiments, though he was more direct than most people Loki dealt with. He could be, though, given that they were both generals.

"The thought may have crossed my mind," Loki admitted. "But you know as well as I do that Asgard doesn't intervene because the Bifrost has been closed. I see no reason to wait in Avalon for it to open. For all I know, none of us will ever see Asgard again."

The thought grieved him. Already he was collapsing beneath the guilt of knowing that he had unleashed monsters upon the races of Earth. To think that he might have accidentally sent thousands of Aesir into exile with him was another piece of straw threatening to break his back. It didn't matter that he disagreed with how so many of them chose to remain in the far reaches of the continent or across the Velsig strait, away from the fighting. They never intended to stay on Earth. He was the one who made that choice for them, all because he was selfish. Honestly, he should be grateful that, at the very least, they kept the truth of his failure a secret from the other races. It was more than he deserved.

"General," a voice called, causing both Loki an Pierce to look over. However, the man standing a few feet from the tent, clad in civilian clothing, had eyes only for Pierce. The Odessian general smiled.

"Rollins, how good to see you've returned. All went well, I assume?"

"Yessir." Rollins glanced over at Loki. "Would you like me to wait in your office?"

"We actually finished." Pierce offered his hand for Loki to shake. "It was a pleasure working with you, as always, General."

"Likewise," Loki said, taking the offered hand. When he released it, Pierce gathered the wooden chest and turned to Rollins.

"Follow me."

Rollins did, and soon Loki was alone in the command tent. Though the area was teeming with soldiers awaiting tomorrow's journey, none of them approached him. He savored the silence. When the sun rose in the morning, there was no telling when his next respite would be.


	10. Chapter 10

A map with major cities, mountains, and rivers can be found on chapter one or ten of this story on Ao3. The map is far from exact, but it will provide a general idea of where things are located. I have also made minor changes to locations, character ranks, and terrain. One change that affects this chapter is I made it clear that the dragon riders stationed in Odessa will be present as well.

I've also realized that some events, such as the meeting from last chapter, don't make much sense from a military standpoint. Due to the nature of fanfic, I can't do much to change it now without causing confusion. I will endeavor to improve realism in future chapters as I do more research for this fic.

* * *

Light flooded in as the curtains were thrown wide. A groan came from the pile of blankets on a nearby bed.

"Put them back," Steve said, tugging the fabric over his head. His face pressed into the pillow.

"No can do." Bucky stepped away from the window and grabbed a fistful of blankets. With a sharp tug, he yanked the bedding off the bed. Steve's pitiful moaning was ignored. "We have to leave or we'll be late."

"Then let us be late." Steve groped around for the blanket, arm covering his eyes. Bucky held it out of reach.

"What happened to the Steve Rogers that won't stop as long as the Chitauri live?"

"He drank too much."

Bucky chuckled. "I warned you, didn't I? But you didn't listen. To busy drinking with that dwarf friend of yours."

"She was nice," Steve mumbled. He gave up on getting his sheets back and settled for glaring at Bucky.

"Doesn't mean you had to match her drink for drink."

Steve didn't answer, too busy being miserable. Bucky sighed and fished a small vial out of his pocket. He tossed it at Steve. The vial hit his friend's chest and rolled onto the blanket before Steve even realized it had been thrown.

Bony fingers fumbled for the bottle. Steve lifted it to his face and squinted at the handwritten label along the side. Even without a pounding headache Steve would have been unable to read it.

"It's for your hangover," Bucky said. "Freshly brewed and enchanted."

Steve quickly uncorked the bottle and tossed it back, downing the contents in one gulp. When he pulled the bottle from his lips, his face twisted in disgust. "Can't they make it taste any better?"

"Why bother? They know people will still drink it."

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but then he paused. He scrutinized Bucky. "When'd you pick this up, anyway?"

"This morning. Woke up early."

Hardly slept, actually. He'd tossed and turned for hours before a particularly vivid nightmare woke him for good. Thankfully, Steve always slept like a brick, especially when he was drunk.

But Steve wasn't stupid. The expression on his friend's face told Bucky that Steve knew exactly why he had been wandering the fort at the crack of dawn.

Nonetheless, Steve didn't press the issue. He dragged himself upright and leaned against the headboard. His eyes went to the window that overlooked an alley between the Dragon Corp and army barracks. Soldiers were pouring from the other building, heading in the direction of the western gate. There they would join with the reinforcements from Stuttgart and Albesaa.

"When do we march?"

"Within the hour."

"How long do you think we'll be gone this time?"

"No idea. I doubt even Loki knows."

Steve sighed. "I feel like we've been fighting forever." He turned away from the window and stood. "You should go to the hangar. I'll meet you there when I'm dressed."

Bucky nodded and crossed the room. When he opened the door, he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he called, "Don't be late this time, punk."

A boot flew past his head and hit the wall. "Shut up, jerk!"

Bucky chuckled and stepped into the hall. The door closed behind him, and he could hear Steve curse up a storm as he went to retrieve his boot-turned-projectile.

As Bucky descended the stairs and away from Steve, the smile slid from his lips. It was as if between one step and the next he had become a different person: gone were the laughing eyes, gone were the easy grins. There was a coldness inside of him, one that not even the blistering heat could alleviate, and it froze his mouth into a frown. His right hand stung as his nails pressed into his palm. The left creaked and whirred.

Breathing in a lungful of stale air, Bucky set out for the hangar. Mudcracks crunched beneath his boots as he weaved through the barracks, and the soldiers he passed gave him a wide berth. If you asked them, they would have said he watched them like a hawk watched a mouse.

If you asked Bucky, he would have said he watched them like the mouse watched the hawk.

Voices came from the courtyard next to the hangar, and when Bucky turned around the last corner, he found that some of the dragon riders were already there. Janet van Dyne was greasing her dragon's gears in the shade, while another of the Odessian riders, Scott Lang, was arguing with Clint.

"Breaking into the Governor's house doesn't count if your employer bribed the guard to let you in," Clint was saying as he shoved supplies into Hawkeye's saddlebags. "They're doing all the work for you."

"Oh, but it counts if you get in by sleeping with the guards?" Scott asked, leaning against his dragon.

"At least then I'm doing the work myself. Besides, I like to think of it as an added bonus."

Scott shook his head, tsk-ing in disapproval. "How desperate the General must have been to recruit you."

Clint scowled. "Like you're one to talk. I heard you were about to be sent to the gallows when the Dragon Corp picked you up."

"Oh, they _have_ sent me to the gallows. But I always escaped in the end."

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but then he caught sight of Bucky walking towards them. "It's about time you got here," he said as he pulled the cloth straps closed. His eyes slid to the empty space at Bucky's side. "Steve's on his way, I assume?"

Bucky jerked his head in a nod. There was a moment of silence as Clint waited for him to elaborate, but Bucky's jaw was clenched tight.

Clint took it in stride. "Loki went to speak with General Pierce. She should be back soon to give us the mission details. The only other rider we're waiting on is Wanda."

Bucky nodded again, and when it became apparent Clint had no other information to supply, he stepped around the two riders to enter the hangar. Before he left earshot, he could hear Scott say, "That guy creeps me out."

The inside of the hangar was even more stifling than outside, and the air reeked of hot metal. Winter's heads rose as Bucky approached, its eyes swimming with purple light. Bucky rested his palms against its snouts. The light inside pulsed red.

When the door of the stable opened, Winter hauled itself outside with a screech of metal. The dragon's too-large frame left scratches in the walls. Bucky leaned over to rub stone dust off the silver plates before taking the dragon outside.

It was easy for Bucky to tune out the conversations around him as he worked on Winter. Silver plates were solid beneath his hands, and the repetitious steps helped crowd out unwanted thoughts. The world narrowed down to him and the oiled rag in his hand.

Bucky's trance was broken when the light above his head shifted from vivid orchid to a deep purple. He paused, clothe held against the gear on the inside of Winter's hip, and turned his head. Steve's boots entered his line of vision.

"Do you need any help down there?" his friend asked, peering through the gaps in Winter's frame.

Bucky shook his head.

"Alright. I'll get our provisions and helmets."

Steve walked off, and Bucky continued greasing the last of the gears. The muscles in his right arm trembled, making it hard to hold the rag. He grit his teeth and forced his limb to be still.

"There's a lot less food than I thought there'd be," Steve said as he returned. He dropped a crate to the ground next to him. "They must not expect the battle to take long."

It took two tries for Bucky's voice to work. "That, or they're running out of supplies." He crawled out from beneath the dragon and stood. "I heard the Chitauri ambushed a Stuttgart supply line last week."

Steve tilted his head at him, and then he smiled. It looked too much like Bucky's. "I was trying to be optimistic, jerk."

Heavy footsteps caught their attention, and they turned to see Wanda Maximoff and her dragon exit the hangar. Witch shown brighter with magic than any of the other dragons, even Lockheart. Its whole body was suffused with an eerie scarlet. When Wanda passed them, that light served only to highlight the dark circles under her eyes.

As if sensing the weight of their stares, Wanda glanced over her shoulder. Steve immediately looked away and busied himself with putting their supplies into the saddlebags. Bucky met her stare, and after a moment, she inclined her head in a nod. He returned the gesture.

The dragon riders finished the last of their preparations and waited for Loki to return. The stream of soldiers from the barracks and mess hall had become a trickle by the time Lockheart landed in the center of the courtyard. Loki dismounted swiftly, helmet tucked under her arm, and beckoned for them approach.

Once everyone was gathered, Loki began to lay out the battle plan. Occasionally she'd draw a diagram in the dirt to point out key targets. Though they would likely review the plan in two days, when the army reached the outskirts of Casavala, each rider listened intently to everything Loki said.

Her last words before they mounted were, "Be careful out there. And I don't just mean on the battlefield. Something is wrong inside this army."

They nodded, and a minute later, six dragons were in the air. They crossed the wall and spread out. Each dragon landed at their post amidst the assembled soldiers. The army stretched for thousands of feet, intermixed rows of foot soldiers, camelry, and wagons. Some of the wagons were filled with water and rations, while others carried masked elves.

At the front of the army, the commanding officers sat upon decorated camels. The most decorated one belonged to Colonel Hawley, the leader of the regiment. General Pierce was, strangely, not accompanying his troops this battle.

Loki landed beside the Colonel, and the two began speaking. After a few minutes, Colonel Hawley raised her head and shouted, "Soldiers, move out!"

Like a frozen river thawing, the soldiers began to move. The first few rows crept to a march, and as they picked up speed, the rest of the army followed suit. Soon, two thousand soldiers were advancing into the open desert. Past the ends of the regiment, dwarven troops had gathered to watch the procession. Them and a handful of soldiers would be the only military in Odessa once the regiment left.

As the army marched, only Hawkeye was in the air. The dragon would fly ahead, circle the regiment, and return to center position.

Everything beyond the army was silent. The wind was but a whisper, and all of the fauna were wisely avoiding the unbearable heat. Metal carcasses poked through thin layers of dirt and sand, and Odessa shrunk away. Plateaus rose up in the city's place, towering overhead. The shade they offered was fleeting, and after a few hours, the foot soldiers began lagging.

Still, they kept moving until dusk fell upon the desert. Long shadows stretched across the ground, and red drenched the clouds. The tops of Casavala's ruins were specks in the distance, their silhouettes stark as the horizon consumed the sun.

"Set up camp here," Colonel Hawley ordered, bringing her camel to a stop. She turned to face the gathered soldiers. "We'll march again when the sun rises."

Her words swept through the ranks, and slowly the structured rows dissolved. Wagons were unloaded and tents sprang to life. Ghostly white faces appeared in the darkness as the subterranean elves left the shelter of the prairie schooners. Some settled down in their own section of the camp while others took up guard at the perimeter.

Winter tromped through the encampment to where the other dragon riders were gathering. Bucky dismounted swiftly while Steve half-jumped, half-fell to the ground. Loki was the only one who remained on her dragon, and she watched them all with keen eyes.

"Specialist Lang, once you've eaten you'll take first watch," she said. "Barton will take second and van Dyne third."

The three riders acknowledged the order with varying degrees of respect. Loki gave the team another once-over before she left for the command tent.

The morning's exuberance was absent, and the conversations that cropped up while they ate were either necessary or brief. Steve moved as if a trance, shoveling down gruel with an empty stare in his eyes. As soon as his bowl was empty, he dismissed himself with a mumble and went to his and Bucky's tent.

Dinner ended, and Bucky helped tidy up before joining Steve. His friend was already passed out on his bedroll, a line of drool on his chin and one boot still on his foot. Bucky sighed and pulled the boot off, placing it by the other one along the edge of the tent. He stripped off his uniform, leaving it in a somewhat neat pile, and laid down.

Bucky breathed in deeply, held it, and breathed out. He shifted, the uneven ground unyielding despite the bedroll. He could see the faint glow of Winter's core through the thin fabric walls, and he focused on it as he tried to relax. Eventually, his thoughts quieted and he began to drift.

That's when the screaming started.


End file.
